Snipes 'n' Shells
by sullenSniper
Summary: Mortimer Mundy is a rookie Sniper whose heart is bigger than his brain. Alan is a newbie Spy who's bad with disguises. This is the story of their life as they learn to deal with the battles on the field and their everyday life within the barracks. [Contains Original Characters.]
1. Prologue: Spy in the Base!

**Author's Note:** This story stars a cast of OCs in a canon universe, and may contain elements that may make some people uncomfortable (animal cruelty, tragic backstory clichés, fanservice). Also, there will be no explicit sexual content (though such happenings may be implied). If you're not open to any of this, I highly recommend you turn back now, for the sake of your own sanity. Thank you.

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**Prologue: Spy in The Base!**

* * *

The blazing hot sun stares down at the barren horizon from high above. Save for the occasional cactus or desert eagle, the desert appears completely devoid of life. A tumbleweed lightly bounces by, carried by the dry winds, until the sudden force of a passing vehicle pushes it farther and faster. The first sign of sentient life seen in this desert, and he drives a camper van.

The driver of the van, a rugged-looking man with sun-kissed skin, is a man used to these harsh surroundings. Sporting an Outback hat and yellow-tinted shades, his eyes remain protected from the sharp glare of the sun's rays as he focuses on the unmapped road before him. Holding the wheel with one hand, he uses his free hand to retrieve a flier from the glove-box.

A couple of weeks ago, a company called Builders League United had contacted him with a job offer. Somehow, they had known about his skill repertoire and tracked him down—not an easy task when the man they're trying to hire is a nomad. But he can't help but wonder what a construction company located in the middle of nowhere wants with a professional hunter. Perhaps they wanted to hire him as a bodyguard?

_It doesn't matter_, he thinks to himself as he puts the flier away. _Money is money. And that means more food!_ The thought of being able to eat all he wants fills him with glee, and he starts singing sweet, nonsensical lyrics to himself while swerving about the rough terrain.

The drive continues on for another half-hour, until a sharp rock in the road blows a hole in one of the tires, forcing the man to park the camper and step out. But as he removes the spare tire from the back of the van, he cannot help but get a sneaking suspicion that he's being watched. He chalks it up to paranoia stemming from prolonged isolation, but try as he might, he cannot shake off the feeling. Every rustle of a tumbleweed, every crunch of a trampled twig, every whisper of the wind summons chills down his spine.

_Suck it up, Mort. There's nothin' around for miles. You're drivin' yourself mad!_

After finally replacing the broken tire, he buckles himself in and is about to start the car when a loud shatter rings out from the back. Startled, he unlatches his seatbelt and cautiously heads towards the back of the van. Everything appears untouched, save for a broken jar (thankfully empty) that likely fell from the shelf. He turns to look at the bed. Sitting there is his trusty stuffed koala, Li'l Bruce. Only Li'l Bruce doesn't seem so little. In fact, it looks twice its usual size—much too large to fit in the man's pocket.

The hunter unsheathes his kukri and slowly approaches the stuffed bear. With the blade tip, he gently prods the plush toy's forehead. Bruce flinches for a split second, but remains stable. Realizing the risk of provoking the bear, he sheathes the blade and starts ticking its belly until he gets a more obvious reaction.

"Will you quit zat?" shouts the imposter plush bear between bouts of loud laughter. The hunter's eyes widen as the bear's appearance dissolves its disguise, revealing its true form: a slender man in a navy pinstripe suit and a blue balaclava. At the stranger's feet lies an unlaced paper mask emblazoned with a scrawl of Li'l Bruce's face. As his laughter dies down, the mystery man rubs his forehead, where he was poked. "Well, at least I'm not bleeding to death or anyzhing." He looks up at the hunter, and says with a carefree demeanor, "Circumstances aside, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mortimer Mundy."

Mortimer, already thrown off by the previous revelation, is now more shocked and irked than ever. "How the hell'd you know 'bout my name?"

The blue-suited stranger hopped off the bed and brushed the dirt and dust off him. "I know all about you, Mr. Mundy. Professional sniper, grew up in rural Australia, lived in the Outback for months at a time... dated some _sheep_...?"

Flustered by the last comment, Mr. Mundy blurts out, "What the hell are ya, some kinda bloody stalker?"

"I assure you, I am more zhan a mere 'stalker'. I am a secret agent. Intelligence is my specialty!"

"You're not so intelligent if your disguise can fall off that easily."

The so-called "secret agent" crosses his arms and pouts. "Well, zat bear mask was thrown together at zhe last moment. My disguises are superior otherwise!"

"Sure. I'm sure all your little paper masks work stupendously," Mortimer retorts. "Look, I dunno why you're stalking me..."

"I am NOT a stalker!"

"... but sneakin' into my van is just goin' out of line. In case you can't tell, I can't exactly afford a second mouth t' feed." He glances at the dirt stains on the stowaway's suit and scuffed-up shoes. "How long were you following me for, anyway?"

The agent looks down at his dirty garments and frowns. "Not nearly as long as you think. I have been trying to look for BLU..."

"Waitaminute, you're going to BLU?"

He nods. "Oui. I was wandering the desert for days, and zhen I saw your van passing by and thought I would hitch a ride."

"I see..." Trailing off, he returns to the driver's seat and turns on the car. "Just as a warning, this is a one-time favor."

The straggler's face brightens at this turn of events, and tears start forming from his eyes. "Oh, merci, Mr. Mundy! I must pay you back for this!"

Seeing the expression on his face, Mortimer can't help but smile. "No worries, mate. Jus' call me Mort."

In the days that followed, Mr. Mundy and his acquaintance—who insists on being called Spy—have spent as much of their daylight traveling, sparing time to eat and sleep as the sun goes down. As their supply of canned goods grows short, Mort resorted to whipping out his trusty sniper rifle and hunting for the little game that wanders the landscape. It became increasingly obvious that Spy did not know how to adapt in this type of environment; his outfit told him that much. But with a little bit of training, he learned how to gather food and water from the plant life, and took advantage of his butterfly knife and stealth to catch smaller game. On occasions, the two would take shifts driving, with one taking over for the day and the other driving at night. The two seem to have bonded a bit throughout the trip, but the hunter cannot help but be wary about his stowaway partner. They may be the best of friends now, but what else could be lying under that mask of his...?


	2. Ch 1: Meet the Team

**Author's Note:** This story stars a cast of OCs in a canon universe, and may contain elements that may make some people uncomfortable (animal cruelty, tragic backstory clichés, fanservice). Also, there will be no explicit sexual content (though such happenings may be implied). If you're not open to any of this, I highly recommend you turn back now, for the sake of your own sanity. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter One: Meet The Team**

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_Once upon a time, there was a tiny faerie named Anonyme. Anonyme was a very special sort of sprite: she could disguise herself as anybody and anything she wanted. One day, she was accepted by a school tailored towards magical beings like her. Anonyme was excited—finally, she would show the world what she was truly capable of._

_Unfortunately, things didn't go quite as well for the little faerie girl. Her grades were average at best, and the disguises she was so proud of broke easily. As a result, she was ridiculed by the other shape-shifters, and after failing one too many classes, she was kicked out of the school and sent to the human world for further training._

_Lost in a land unknown to her, the terrified sprite wandered the forest, left to fend for herself. Then one fateful day, Anonyme found a tent and unlit campfire in the middle of the forest. Tired and starving, she ate the few berries in the bag left behind and snuggled up inside the sleeping bag. Anonyme slept for a long time, until she was rudely awoken by a giant, prodding finger. The finger belonged to a human male named Archer._

_Anonyme was afraid of the human at first, but over time, she grew to like him more and more. Contrary to his rugged exterior, he was soft-spoken and kind to all living things. He was also intelligent and skilled with a bow and arrow. As Anonyme traveled alongside the man, she learned how much they had in common. Like her, he was also an outcast, rejected by his own kind. The hunter and the sprite became the best of friends, and for the first time in their lives, they both felt like they belonged._

_Alas, this feeling would not last forever. In time, the two would grow apart and pursue their own destinies, find love from other people. The sprite was well aware of this, but she was determined to never let that happen._

As the last tendril of usable sunlight disappears from view, the Spy—with a sigh—snaps shut his journal and tucks it away in his suit. He stands and walks over to the front of the van, where his friend, Mortimer, lies, asleep on the driver's seat. Trying not to disturb the poor fellow, the Spy plucks him from his spot and plops him on the flimsy bed; the man is an amazingly heavy sleeper. He stops to stare longingly at the hunter's rugged features, to brush his fingers against his messy brown hair and overgrown sideburns. A part of him wants to do more, but his conscience fights against it. Still, he resists stepping away from the sleeping man, as if doing so will make his heart stop beating. After much reluctance, he wills himself to break contact with him. As long as he's nearby, the Spy is satisfied.

In time, the dark, starry sky gives way to the sun, and the destination grows ever nearer. Far off in the horizon, the familiar, modern logo of Building Leaders United stands out amongst the drab desert. As the camper proceeds, the sleek, industrial building gradually reveals itself, towering over them in minutes. Spy, still full of energy despite driving all night, parks the van in a nearby lot and wakes up Mort. While exiting the van, they are greeted by a petite woman dressed in purple.

"Hello there," the woman says with a smile on her face. "Welcome to Building Leaders United. You must be the new recruits. Thank goodness you're finally here! You can call me Miss Pauling." She holds out a hand to Mortimer.

"You can call me Mr. Mundy," Mort replies, still recovering from waking up. He weakly shakes her hand, causing her to raise a brow in concern.

"I take it you've had a long trip. Well, not to worry—we have showers, beds, and food over in the barracks, if you need it." Mort perks up instantly upon the mention of food; she cracks a smile at this reaction. "Now that you're awake, let me give you a tour of the place."

The BLU fortress is a lot bigger in the inside, certainly more so than it appears from the outside. (Spy makes a joke about a "TARDIS" thingamajig and expectations of "timey-wimey things" happening, which Miss Pauling takes in stride, but which flies over Mort's head.) But with Miss Pauling's assistance, getting around the area becomes far less intimidating. The barracks are for lounging and sleeping, the cafeteria's for eating (and the occasional food fight), and the locker rooms are for dressing and showering before and after work. But as much as Mortimer admires the lady in purple's kindness, he's starting to become anxious about meeting his coworkers.

Whilst touring through the main fortress, the trio passes by a stout man in a construction hat, carrying a box of some sort. Curious, the Spy sneaks away to follow him, and Mortimer, noticing his sudden absence, follows suit. They follow the man to a garage door of some sort, which opens instantly as he steps in front of it. Swiftly, they sneak inside, where they are introduced to a room full of scrap metal, tools, and machinery in various stages of progress. The two express their amazement in hushed tones.

Spy's eyes widen at the sight of this discovery. "Zhis is amazing! BLU's technology is far superior to anyzhing I've ever seen." He giggles and pokes the nose end of a turret-like device. "Touch!"

"Dammit, Spy! You can't go touchin' everything! What if something goes off, or—"

"Relax, Morty! Zhey're not even turned on. Look!" He lightly taps the top of the turret, which, upon impact, turns on and starts adjusting its nozzle. "Uh-oh."

"Duck!" Mort pushes Spy out of the way, but the turret head swivels to face them, anyway. After a long moment of staring down at the two, it makes an affirming beep and switches back to its default position, sensing no harm. The two of them get up and sigh in relief. "Well, at least that's over."

"I see you've met my sentry," says a voice from behind. Mort and Spy turn around, and find themselves face-to-face with the man in the hardhat. "Y'all oughta be lucky he only targets RED members, or you wouldn't even be standing here, talkin' to me." He stares them up and down, as if inspecting their outfits. "I take it you're the new recruits?"

Mort hesitates a bit before replying. "Yeah, we are. We got lost and wound up here—"

"You have a really nice lab!"

"Er, yeah. Thanks. Anywho, we'd better get going. Wouldn't wanna interrupt anything important you're doing." Mort starts pushing his partner away, who's still babbling about how UH-MAZING the place is or whatever, when the hardhat man starts chuckling.

"Aw, I wasn't up to anything important. While you're still in the building, why don't I show you guys around?"

Spy's eyes grow wide and glisten with joy. "Would I ever!" While not nearly as enthusiastic as the agent, Mortimer doesn't see any point in refusing; a casual smile and shrug is enough of a reaction of acceptance.

"Great! Just follow me; exit's right this way." The hardhat man starts walking towards the other end of the room, followed by the newbies. "By the way, the name's Miller Macintosh. I'm the Engineer for BLU. But you can call me 'Engie'."

Miller's soft-spoken Southern drawl is soothing to Mort's ears, like silk on smooth skin. He can't quite describe this feeling, but he feels more relaxed in his presence. "Mortimer Mundy. Professional sniper. Er, sorta."

"You can call me Agent Double-O—"

"Jus' call 'im Spy."

The Engineer belts out a hearty chuckle. "Well, aren't you two quite the pair! I think you're gonna fit in just fine here."

Miller starts showing them around the building—"Teufort", he calls it—pointing out the locations of the supply lockers and battlements. Mort is particularly amazed by the view of the river below, and his interest is piqued by the rustic building standing across from it. ("Pay no mind to it," the Engineer says, his normally gentle voice inexplicably filled with bitterness.) Spy, however, seems more interested in splashing around in the water and exploring the sewers. (Luckily, Mort manages to drag him out before he could go in too deep.)

As they explore the interior, they encounter a number of odd fellows sporting the company colors. The first one is a man—at least, Mort thinks they might be a man—in an asbestos suit, his face covered by a gas mask. The expressionless mask, inches away from the Spy's nose, can be rather unsettling. But that fear is quickly washed away when Miller starts speaking to him.

"Aiden, don't stand too close to 'im; you'll frighten the poor fella." Hearing his name snapped the masked man out of his trance. Turning to the agent, Miller says, "Sorry 'bout that. He gets excited when new mercs arrive. Mort, Spy, this is Aiden, our Pyro."

The Pyro waves and starts talking and gesticulating. Only, his dialogue is completely muffled by the gas mask, making the gestures appear melodramatic in comparison to what he's likely saying. But despite the strange man's behavior, the Engineer laughs and pats him on the shoulder. "Say, why don't you go check up on Miss Pauling? She's pro'lly worried sick about these two." Aiden nods and runs off, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

"Sorry if he caught you off-guard," Miller says as he leads the rookies towards the barracks, an area barely touched upon by Miss Pauling. Like the rest of BLU, it was surprisingly large for what purpose it serves, though not quite as much so. The building, Miller explains, provides mercenaries with most of the basic amenities, to keep them satisfied. The aroma of freshly cooked foods entice Mortimer as they pass by the cafeteria—located on the ground floor. Moving on to the showers, the lockers and stall walls are built of finely forged steel, matching the neutral, modern tone of the rest of the facility. Further down is the lounge room, where meetings and group gatherings are held.

Heading up to the second floor, they can hear all sorts of sounds, as sleepy mercenaries awaken from their slumber. But all the yawns and creaks pale in comparison to the racket resounding from the end of the hallway. The last door to the left breaks wide open, and a lanky young man storms out of the room.

"That is IT! I've had it up to my neck with you and your snoring and your everything! First chance I get, I'm moving out!" The man has a strong Boston accent that's further accentuated the angrier he gets.

The voice that follows is a frightening, deep snarl, more bear than man. "No. I am done with YOU, leetle man!" Suddenly, a giant hand is thrust out the door, its index finger pointing straight at the lad. "Go run back to Medic!" (Mortimer isn't able to identify the unusual accent, but Spy instantly recognizes it as Russian.)

The younger man exchanges snips with the bear-man before finally flipping the bird and walking away. He bumps into Mortimer along the way, and shoves him aside while muttering a surprisingly polite "excuse me". The Sniper opens his mouth to reply, but Miller places a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. "Don't bother; that boy won't listen to reason."

Miller turns his attention to the door nearest to him and opens it. Inside is a bedroom with simple furniture, including a desk and chair, a three-shelf drawer, and a bunk bed tucked off near a corner. "The arrangement might be different dependin' on the room, but for the most part, this is pretty much it. These parts of the barracks work like hotel rooms, but on the house." Still standing in the doorway, he points a thumb at the door behind him. "That's where I sleep. You're welcome to take this room, since it hasn't been used in a while."

This particular detail attracted Spy's attention. "Why not? It looks perfectly normal to me."

Miller belts out a laugh and answers, "Aw, nothin', really. Jus' some silly rumors 'bout a ghost haunting the room." A chill runs down Spy's spine at the mention of ghosts. "What, you're afraid of that stuff? You Spies really are a cowardly bunch." The Engineer continues to guffaw at the Spy's expense while Mortimer remains completely oblivious, happily inspecting the furniture.

Later, back downstairs, they decide to drop by and take a good look at the fitness training room, located just past the locker room entrance. Muffled sounds of a rousing argument and some crashing metal can be heard in the distance, growing in volume as they venture near the door. "Sounds like quite a commotion," Miller notes with a smile on his face. As he twists the lever, Mortimer and Spy take a step back from the door, fearing whatever—or whomever—lies behind it.

The room is quite spacious, possibly due to the lack of any actual equipment; a punching bag, some weights, and gym mats lining the floor. Unfortunately, not much time could be spent examining it, as a clattering sound interrupts them. On the opposite end of the room, a full-blown scuffle is progressing.

"Quit it, Jane! Can't you see he's already been through enough?"

A tall and brawny-looking black man is seen holding back a short man, struggling to break free. Meanwhile, the "leetle man" from earlier has crashed into a rack of dumbbells—the cause of the sound—most likely thrown in there by an even littler man. Getting a good look at the smaller man's face is almost impossible, as half of it is concealed by a beaten old soldier's helmet, but his square jaw and stout body reveals the level of strength he has over the scrawny youth. The taller of the two tries to recover, but is quickly kicked down by the shorter one's boot. Once the boy's been bruised and beaten into a state of unconsciousness, the victor of the fight—still under the captivity of the dark-skinned man—is dragged away, swearing and cursing on the way out.

Mortimer's heart sinks. _I've just watched a boy get the shit beaten out of 'im, and I didn't do anything to stop it._ He runs over to where the boy lies and checks his vitals. Feeling signs of a pulse, he sighs in relief. Good. He's still breathing. Turning his attention to Miller, who's following oh-too-casually after a trembling Spy, Mort shouts, "Is there a doctor around here? Out with it."

Unfazed, Miller smirks and says, "Lemme show you the way."


	3. Ch 2: MEDIC!

**Author's Note:** This story stars a cast of OCs in a canon universe, and may contain elements that may make some people uncomfortable (animal cruelty, tragic backstory clichés, fanservice). Also, there will be no explicit sexual content (though such happenings may be implied). If you're not open to any of this, I highly recommend you turn back now, for the sake of your own sanity. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Two: MEDIC!**

* * *

With Mortimer and Spy taking the young male in tow, Miller leads them down a hallway, until they notice several chairs lined up against the wall next to a windowed door. This door is noticeably taller and wider than the others found around the base, and it's adorned with various warning signs in English and German, including one which reads "No Smoking" (catching a glance of this one, Spy slips a cigarette back into his pocket). Miller knocks on the door with his gloved hand (Mort notices that the Engineer wears only one glove. The question is, why?) and calls out, "Hey, Doc! Got a special delivery for you."

"Vhat is it now?" answers a voice, dripping with exasperation. As the mysterious "Doc" opens the door, Mort and Spy's eyes grow wide as saucers. A rotund figure standing almost a full head taller than the Sniper, the man is HUGE. Not to mention awfully pissed. "I've got no time for your..." His anger is drained away, replaced by shock as he finally notices the body of the boy. "Vell? Vhat're you vaiting for? Get him on zhe table, pronto!"

Right away, Mortimer and Spy lay the boy on the examination table, where the doctor proceeds to inspect the extent of the damage. Neither of them could understand what he's muttering, but his relieved sigh quickly soothes the tension in the room. "He's got a few crushed ribs and a lot of bruising, but he should be just fine ozhervise."

The boy's eyes flicker open and he lifts his head to skim the environment. "Wha...?" As soon as he catches a glimpse of the doctor's face, his lips emit a weak chuckle. "Hey, Doc. What're you doing here?" The young man coughs, a small drop of blood trickling down his mouth.

The doctor, his expression eerily stoic, grabs hold of the young man's forehead and slams it against the table; he seems unaware of or indifferent to this violent action. "I digress; he is in much vorse condition zhan I expected. But not to vorry: he vill be better in a snap!" Noticing the concerned reactions of the Sniper and the Spy, he throws in, "He'll be on his feet in zhe morning."

"Are you sure?" Mortimer says, his brow furrowed with worry. After this incident, he hopes he'll never have to make a trip to the operation room ever.

The doctor's expression lightens up, and he waves off Mort's comment. "Sure I'm sure! Vincent iz a regular patient of mine. If he ever dies, I vould never forgive myself!" Mort still has his doubts, but the larger man's answer relieves him a bit.

The Sniper opens his mouth to speak, but out of nowhere, Spy butts in. "Nice to meet you, Doctor Hartmann!"

The doctor is taken aback at first, but he appears slightly amused by this turn of events. "It's my pleasure, Herr Spy." He turns his attention to Mortimer. "From zhe looks of it, I take it you are zhe new Sniper?" Mortimer nods. "Vhen I heard zhat ve vould be receiving new recruits, I couldn't help but be a little... apprehensive." Glancing at Vincent's unconscious body, he continues. "But after you've saved Vincent, I have to admit, I could not be more relieved. Danke schön, mein Kameraden."

Doctor Hartmann's gentle smile and compliment warms Mortimer's heart, and his cheeks flush a bright pink as he stammers, attempting to piece together a proper reply. "I-er, thank you... Uh, I mean, it's nothin', really! I couldn't just stand around and do nothin' while somebody's hurt. I—"

His speech is interrupted by Miller, who, until now, has remained silent. "I guess I'd better be off now. Take care of 'em, Doc."

The larger man glares at the smaller man in the hardhat. "Vill do, Herr Macintosh." With that, the Engineer takes his leave, and the doctor regains his former composure. "Vell, I don't believe I've gotten your names yet. As Herr Spy had already mentioned, I am Doktor Hartmann. I am zhe Medic for zhe team here at Teufort. Speaking of vhich, I cannot keep calling you 'Herr Spy' forever. For zhe safety of our team, it vould be best if you let me know here and now."

Spy pouts. "Zhat's confidential, fattie!"

"If zhat's how you vant to play it..."

In the blink of an eye, the Spy is knocked out, covered in syringes. The Medic blows on the nozzle of his unusual weapon of choice—a gun that shoots out syringe needles in a projectile arc—and puts it away. "Vell, how about you, Herr Sniper? Got anyzhing to add?"

The Sniper isn't sure how to react; he'll have to be cautious when answering. "Name's Mortimer. Mortimer Mundy. J-just call me Mort. None of that 'hair' stuff."

"Oh. Vell, all right zhen. 'Mort'. Nahh. I like 'Morty' better. Fits your personality better." He gives a playful smile, which Mort—sorry, _Morty_—reciprocates. Despite the Medic's hair-trigger temper, there's an air about him that comforts the scruffy Sniper.

_I think we're gonna be the best of buds...!_

That thought is interrupted by the emergence of another figure. Well, two, actually—Mort didn't see the other one being carried into the room. As it turns out, they're the two men in the fitness room earlier. And from the looks of it, they still haven't completely gotten over their squabble yet.

"Sorry, Harty. Jane's been awfully irritable lately," the dark-skinned man says, his tone genuinely apologetic. "Ah can't figure out what's wrong with 'im." Meanwhile, the one he refers to as "Jane" appears to have simmered down to simply miffed. "I gotta go. Take care of Janey for me!"

Hartmann smiles as he takes the shorter man in his arms, treating him like a baby. "Vill do, Duncan. Auf Wiedersehen, my friend!" The moment the black man—Duncan—is right out the door, the good doctor's countenance instantly transforms into a devious one. "Now, zhen, Balg, explain yourself. Vhat satisfaction did you feel vhen you beat up my dear Kaninchen?"

Unlike Mort when he spoke to Hartmann earlier, the man named "Jane" is showing an excess of confidence, bordering on arrogance. Not to mention he's awfully loud, with the voice and tone of a drill sergeant. "I had to teach the brat a lesson about messing with the big boys. If he can't back up his words with action, he doesn't deserve to be on the battlefield!"

"Vincent is just as much of an asset on zhe battlefield as everybody else."

"He's a spineless little whelp who's holding the team back."

"As if beating the Scheiße out of him vill make him more useful. Yes, let's impair his mobility, vhile ve're at it!"

"Kick him off the team. It's better off that way."

"How about I kick you off instead, you little—?"

"HEY!"

The two of them quit bickering and turn their attention to Mortimer, whose face is contorted from frustration. "I don't know what's goin' on here, but all this yabberin' ain't gonna fix nothin'!" He looks at Jane. "Mr. Jane, or whoever you are, I saw what went on in the gym. I dunno what happened, or who started it, but I don't care about that. When Vince wakes up, the two of you are going to talk it out—no fightin' or bickerin', just a nice, simple chat 'til you resolve things." Then to Hartmann: "Hart, you're a doctor. If you really cared about Vincent, you'd know better than to take yer anger out on Jane, even if he did start it. I'm pretty sure that goes against some kinda doctor code or somethin'."

The doctor and the sergeant-wannabe say nothing, their glances alternating between each other and Mort. Then, after a long moment, the silence is finally broken by a loud burst of laughter.

"Gut one, Morty!" Hartmann says as one of his large hands ruffles the Sniper's hat, making his shaggy brown hair even more out of sorts. "Vell, I only have one operating table, so I'll spare you zhe pain zhis time, Janey. But I expect you and Vincent to talk it out after he vakes up. I'll make sure of it."

"Yeah, all right, all right. Just keep that kid reined in or something. Can't have him freaking out in the middle of battle."

"Of course. Off you go, little one!" Jane, storming out, grumbles a bit at the nickname as Hartmann cheerfully waves him goodbye. The doctor then turns back to Mort. "Zhat vas unusual. Under most circumstances, I'd send him to zhe emergency room, but it seems like ve've come to a more peaceful resolution."

"Do you guys always fight?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Fighting is all anyone does around here. 'Specially me."

"But it doesn't always have to be that way."

Hartmann's face turns grim. "Look, kid. You may have kept me from loading Jane's arse vith syringes, but I highly doubt you'd be able to pull zhat off again. There's not a soul here who doesn't vant me dead. None except Kaninchen."

"Now, I know that's not true. You and that Duncan bloke seem like good friends t' me!"

"Only 'cause he treats me like Jane's babysitter."

"But look at it this way: if he really hates you, or doesn't give a hoot about you, would he even trust you with Jane in the first place? An' look at us now! We're talkin' like a couple of chums, wouldn't you say?"

A pause, then: "I suppose."

"So quit bein' so glum an' put on a smile! Fits yer personality better." He wraps his hands around one of Hartmann's (or tries to, anyway) and grins.

The giant of a doctor is absolutely gobsmacked. Such an open gesture of kindness was rare for him: the Australian man's grin reminded him of a certain other young man who treated him the same way, and the way he turned one of his own compliments towards him was less-than-expected. But it's as an old companion of his said: "kindness is contagious". "Ja. I suppose ve are 'friends'."

The sweet moment going on between the two of them is interrupted by a sickly groaning sound coming from the syringe-laden corpse lying on the floor. "Speaking of friends, I zhink you should do somezhing about zhat Spy lackey of yours. He's going to be an obstruction, I just know it." As Mort carries the groggy Spy upstairs to the barracks, the good doctor says to himself, "A Sniper und a Spy... Zhis isn't going to end vell."


	4. Ch 3: Under the Blue Mask

**Chapter Three: Under the Blue Mask**

* * *

After dragging Spy's corpse up to the dorm, Mortimer's stomach starts to grumble. "Ugh... In all that excitement, I forgot that I hadn't eaten since this mornin'. Work can wait—I need food." Hearing the Spy's moaning, he quietly adds, "I'll get somethin' fer you, too."

Pushing open one of the double-doors leading to the cafeteria, Mort is immediately greeted by an array of warm, delicious fragrances. The sweet smell of apple pie, the smoky scent of barbecue pork ribs, and the sharp odor of the strange mystery meat tickle his nose and—before he's even fully aware of it—lead him towards the line of mercenaries (whom might as well be faceless to him, seeing how unspectacular they look from the perspective of a starving man). Without even taking his friend's delicate stomach into consideration, he orders one of everything from the menu and is about to leave the line when...

"Hey, it's the fella from the gym and the office!" The worker serving Mortimer and several other men the mystery meat grins and stares at him with one eye. His only eye.

Finally noticing the eye-patch on him, Mort becomes more than a little bit nervous. "D-Duncan, right? I saw you at the office, too."

The one-eyed man raises a brow, then laughs. "Oh! You mean Hart's place, right? Didn't notice you at the time. Got a lot on my plate with Janey an' work."

"I can tell. Say, is Mr. Jane always like tha—"

"Hey, idiot! Move outta the way!" A younger merc from further down the line shouts at Mort, provoking him into stepping out of the way of the others. You could've at least said "please", Mort thinks to himself, vexed by the youth's rudeness.

Thankfully, the bushman's mood doesn't linger for very long; the delicious taste of the mystery meat eradicates any feelings of anger he once felt. His hunger taking over, he quickly disposes of the tray full of food, and has considered returning for seconds when a familiar face sits down in front of him.

"I figured you'd be here." The Engineer tips his hardhat and smiles. "Yer face when I showed you the place was like a puppy seein' his owner after a long day apart." Mort tilts his head, puzzled by the metaphor being used. _Did I really look like a puppy to him?_

He changes the subject. "Hey, did you know that Duncan works here? I never realized the blokes around here work other jobs, too."

"Duncan shifts between ten jobs, both here and in the town. (Least, that's what I last heard.) Surprising to hear he even gets breaks at all."

"How can he work ten jobs and take care of that brat—er, Mr. Jane—and still catch a break?"

Miller shrugs. "Beats me. I don't think he does 'em all at once, though. I'm pretty sure most of 'em are part-time or seasonal positions."

"I'm pretty sure babysitting Janey is his full-time job," Mort retorts.

Their conversation is suddenly interrupted by a loud, clattering sound. The next table over, a Soldier—the resident Jane Doe—slams their tray on the table, then glares at Mort and Miller before taking his seat. Though the small man's eyes cannot be seen, the aura that exudes from him is enough to send chills down the bushman's spine.

A long, awkward silence looms over their table before the bushman finally remembers something—or rather, somebody. "I gotta go. Bye." He stands to take his tray and rushes back to the line.

Armed with a tray full of the best the cafeteria has to offer, Mortimer returns to the dorm room. Spy is no longer unconscious, but hunger and exhaustion prevents him from leaving his spot on the bottom bunk. The smell of the food is both enticing and nauseating. "Thank you," he says weakly as he accepts a small bowl of soup from the Sniper. Unfortunately, due to his weak stomach, he is unable to enjoy it for long; he barely empties half of it before his gag reflex starts kicking in.

Mortimer frowns and takes the soup away. "Those syringes must've affected you more than I thought."

Spy shakes his head. "No, it's not zhe syringes. I've always been like this..." His voice trails off, as if he's forgotten what to say next. A moment of silence later, he lies on his side and wraps the blanket around him. "Go on without me. I'll only slow you down."

For a long while, Mortimer is uncertain how to react to this statement. In the end, he finally says, "Work can wait. Your well-being's more important."

The secret agent peers at him from under the covers and mutters, "Missing work on zhe first day... you really are looking to get fired, aren't you?"

Had he not been distracted by the food on his lap, Mort would have heard that, clear as day. "Besides, Doctor Hartmann seems awfully busy with that kid, an' after what he did to you, it's pro'lly best he doesn't get involved anymore."

Spy chuckles weakly. "Definitely for zhe best."

For a moment, neither of them say a word, as the Sniper preoccupies himself with the task of cleaning his plate. After taking the last bite of mystery meat, he speaks up. "Say, you know all kinds of things about me, an' you pro'lly know more about our teammates than you let on. Yet I know almost nothin' about you. I mean, I know you don't eat much, and you like to dress all fancy, and you're always causin' trouble wherever you go... but I don't know about you. Know what I mean?"

"I can't reveal too much. Security reasons and all."

"I'm not askin' for much. Just a name'll do. I'll even keep it a secret, if I have to."

A pause, then, with a limp, barely-existent shrug, he answers, "Come closer, and I'll tell you." Puzzled, Mortimer sets the tray aside and leans closer to him. "A little bit more..." Doing as his friend commands, he's practically lying on the bed, his ear inches away from him. "That's good enough. My name... My name is..."

After some hesitation, the Spy whispers in a voice so soft, it is like a gentle breeze in the airless room. But Mort's sharp ears have picked it up, and that name will forever remain, buried in his subconscious.

_Alan Ian Astor._

The name sounds simple enough that it could easily be forgotten, but there is an ethereal quality about it that makes it hard to forget. Say it too fast, and your tongue gets tied. But say it too slowly, and it risks sounding buffoonish. But at the right pace, it sounds...

"Lovely," says the Sniper, letting slip the first word that came to mind. "It's got a nice ring to it!"

Spy—er, Alan—averts his gaze, too bashful to make direct eye contact. "Merci. Your name's not too bad, either."

"Aw, it's nothing special. Got it from my great-grandpappy. Your name's a real charmer, definitely fancy like a Frenchman."

Alan stifles a laugh. "And you're a real hick! I mean seriously, who says 'grandpappy' anymore?"

Mortimer frowns, slightly offended. He never found anything unusual about saying things a certain way. But now, lying here next to this city boy, he can't help but feel insecure about his quaint nature. He stands up and retorts, his tone deadpan, "Sounds like you're feelin' better already."

"No, I'm not! Not yet, anyway." Alan covers himself from head to toe with the blanket, and Mort watches individual articles of clothing slip from under the blanket onto the floor. First his tie. Then his socks, and his pants, and his suit and blouse. After slipping his gloves off and letting them fall, he takes off his balaclava and hands it to Mortimer, who still can't see the Spy's face. "Since you are here, would you mind taking those to the laundry and bringing me a new set of clothes? It has been a while since I have worn something clean. Can you, please?"

Fiddling with the mask in his hands, Mortimer feels discomforted, for some reason. _No, it's not just because he's makin' me into his li'l slave. It's somethin' else. Somethin' about his voice..._ "Alright. But what if you need t' use the bathroom or somethin'?"

"Worry not about me. I am perfectly capable of finding solutions. Now... go." Alan's slender hand gesture suggests the bushman go away, which he does immediately.

Still, he cannot help but have mixed feelings about the Spy's behavior during that moment. Al has always acted a little snobbish from time to time, but usually, it's accompanied by a warmth, due to his cheerful nature. That moment, however, he showed no warmth at all. There was a coldness in his heart, as if something inside of him had changed his very essence. _Well, he said he can handle himself, so I might as well let him. I got more important work to do, anyway._

"Oh, there you are!" Down at the foot of the stairway stands Miss Pauling and a familiar-looking figure sporting a gas mask. The lady in purple rambles on, concerned and slightly exasperated, "I was looking for you all over the place. Thank goodness Aiden found you, or else I'd be running in circles, and that would NOT be a good thing..." Taking a deep breath, she turns her diverted attention back to Mort. "You didn't get too lost, did you?"

Heaving the load of clothes the Spy handed to him, Mortimer shakes his head. "Not at all! Thanks to you and Miller, Spy an' I already feel right at home."

Miss Pauling sighs in relief at the comment. "Well, now that that's settled, I might as well leave you to your business. But be warned: if a situation arises, I'm likely to return at any moment, so behave yourself. Understand, Mr. Mundy?"

Mort swallows a lump in his throat. "Y-yes, ma'am! But before I leave, there's just one question I have." He holds up the dirty laundry in front of the two. "Does anyone know where I can find a place to dump these?"

With Aiden's assistance, Mortimer manages to find a laundry room and gets the Spy's clothes set to wash while they both lug the suitcases up to the dorm room... sort of. Aiden, helpful as he was when carrying them up the stairs, immediately drops the luggage in front of the door, reluctant to open it. Getting frustrated with arguing with the Pyro, Mort thanks him for helping anyway, and hauls it inside.

Inside the bedroom, the secret agent—Alan Ian Astor—lies, fast asleep. With the blanket no longer covering his entire self, the Sniper is able to get a good look at his face. His general facial structure is boyish and youthful, though his long lashes and soft lips make him appear feminine as well. The most distinctive aspect, however, is the spread of pale freckles across his cheekbones and the crooked bridge of his nose. Alan's face is arguably a bit on the plain side, but it has an appeal that is uniquely his. Ethereal and adorable, Mortimer is immediately reminded of a faerie, and explains that as justification for this strange and sudden attraction to him.

He gently sets the luggage down and walks over to the bed where the sleeping beauty lies. From this perspective, he can see how Alan's hair is colored like a dandelion, as well as the two rebellious strands that stand up like bean sprouts. The oddest part of his hair, however, are the twin rat tails sprouting from the nape of his neck; they must reach partway down his back, at least. Mort takes back his previous thought and concludes that Alan is a faerie. Unusual haircut aside, with his shape-shifting powers and complexion, the Spy resembles a magical creature more than any human being.

Realizing he's getting distracted from the task at hand, Mortimer opens up the suitcases and starts organizing the contents and putting them into the empty drawers. While the bushman is busy sorting through garments, the Spy—a light sleeper in disguise—smiles and watches Mortimer through slitted eyes.


	5. Ch 4: The Art of War

**Chapter Four: The Art of War**

* * *

A few minutes to noon, Mortimer finishes fulfilling Alan's favor and heads to the showers to wash up. Normally, he prefers to bathe alone, outside the realm of judgment from peering eyes, but for now, he'll have to make do with the public stalls. Thankfully for him, only one other person seems to be taking a shower this late in the day: Miller. The Engineer, stark naked, is pudgy, but still looks strong—just the way Mort likes them. But the Sniper is unable to enjoy the view for long, as Miller steps into the shower and pulls the curtain.

Curious about the inventor's showering habits, Mortimer keeps his senses sharp while cleaning himself. Miller's soft, lyrical voice tempts him into slumber, but every once in a while, it would be interrupted by an odd sound, as if a machine has gone haywire._ Did something in his stall break?_ No, these things don't seem all that special—certainly not in a way that could have created such noise. He takes another peek at the stall across from him. Hanging on a bar between the two stalls are Miller's backup clothes and boots.

_Hold on a minute. Where'd his glove go?_ Just as the thought came to mind, the stall across from him has gone silent. A gloved hand grabs hold of the curtain, and Mortimer rushes to close his own before he witnesses Miller in all his full-frontal glory. He listens closely to the shuffling sounds of the tubby man stepping out of the shower and donning his clothing. As the thump-thump-thump of the man's working boots gradually fade into nothingness, Mort begins to wonder about what secrets he might be hiding.

He's fifteen minutes late and holding a paper cup half-full of mocha latte, but he's finally arrived and ready to fight. According to one of the other men, the team is down one, and could use a Sniper to help balance out the field... or something like that. Mort can hear explosions and gunfire over in the distance. Far from ready for close combat, he immediately searches for a spot from which he can observe safely. He eventually finds a path leading to the lovely view that Miller showed him and Spy earlier that day, and starts prepping his sniper rifle.

The chaos of the battlefield is overwhelming, but watching it all through the narrow vision of the sniper scope makes it just a touch more comforting. _Just shoot the red guys, and it'll all be over in no time._ He repeats this mantra in his mind as he aims and fires at his target. He didn't come into this job with high expectations of himself—as long as he shoots somebody, he's good to go—but the more he notices his performance, the more his confidence begins to wane. Whenever he asked for a headshot, the less likely he got one. Likewise, shots straight through the head came when he least expected it. _If only those happened more consistently._

As the last few minutes tick away, something unexpected happens. Just when Mort thinks it was safe to pull the trigger, a sharp pain strikes into his spine and chest. He can feel his heartbeats slowing down as the blood that pulsed through his veins begin to bleed out from his back. As he collapses to the ground, the last thing he sees before he blacks out is a devious grin, belonging to a red-suited Spy.

_Blackness. Nothingness. Is that all there is when you die? No, it can't be...! I see... I see a light. It's tiny, but it's there. Perhaps if I reach towards it... I can be saved._

Mort's eyelids flicker, the bright light blinding him as he awakens. As his eyes adjust to the lighting, he can see a large figure looming over him.

"Guten Morgen, Morty," the figure says cheerfully as a giant hand helps him up. "You voke up just in time."

Mortimer's brows contorted in confusion. "In time for what?"

"You vere out for quite a vhile, ja? Zhe next round is about to start!"

Suddenly having flashbacks of the last few moments before he woke up, he shook his head. "No! I ain't goin' out there, no way in hell!"

Hartmann seems unaware—or indifferent—to the bushman's protests. "I take it you're not used to zhe Respawn System yet. Don't vorry: everyone gets scared zhe first time zhey die."

_The _first_ time they die?_ "You mean that's gonna happen again? As in, multiple times? I don't think I can handle this. I wanna go home!"

"No vay, José. Zhe sooner you get used to it, zhe better. Vhy, vhen Kaninchen first came here, I made him take every available shift. He died ein hundert sieben und vierzig times zhat veek, but I zhink he's learned since zhen."

"Ein hundert...? You mean he's died over a hundred times?"

"One hundred und forty-seven times, to be exact. To be frank, I think he did quite vell for his first time." The Medic sounded a little too jolly when he said that.

"But that's impossible! I can understand coming back from the dead one time, but one hundred and forty-seven times...?"_ Did I land in purgatory or something? 'Cause it sounds an awful lot more like Hell._

"Zhat is zhe result of zhe Respawn System. Nobody really knows how it vorks, but zhe instant your personal information is entered into zhe database, you are eligible to be revived und transported back to zhe base vhen you die in battle. Zhe only catch is zhat it only vorks within a certain range, und zhe time it takes for zhe process to take place varies dependin on zhe situation. On average, zhough, it takes about twenty to thirty seconds."

Mortimer is awestruck by this new information. To think, he had only been dead for less than a minute before being transported here. Though he's terrified of the pain he'll feel in the long run, he's also relieved to know that he is not in any real danger—not yet, anyway. "Knowin' this definitely takes a huge burden offa my shoulders. Thanks, Doc."

"Bitte sehr. I should know about zhis—I died over ein tausend times!"

"You really haven't learned, have you?"

"Eh, in my line of vork, it's pretty much inevitable," he replies with a bitterness in his tone. "So tell me, vhat happened out zhere?"

"You mean, how I died?" Even after hearing and saying it so many times, he still cannot get over how casually they speak of death. "Well, I was up on the roost, tryin' to aim at a Soldier or two, but just as I was about to pull the trigger, I felt this sharp pain on my back. Last thing I saw was this guy in a red suit."

"Ah, der Spion. Zhey alvays go after Snipers like you. Masters of stealth, zhey are." The doctor is smiling, but the bushman can hear the bitterness welling up again. "I don't know vhere your smart-mouthed little friend is, but zhere vill come a time vhen he vill have to do zhe same to zhe enemy."

Realizing who Hartmann is talking about, Mortimer's heart drops. "You mean... Spy's gonna have to... _kill_ somebody?"

He adjusts his glasses and says, "Ja. Have you not been doing zhe same before now?" Mort says nothing, unable to form a proper answer. A mischievous smirk on his face, Hartmann quips, "You're an odd one, Morty. But I like odd." He pats him on the back (a little too hard, though) and shoves him in the direction of the door. "Now, off you go!"

Mort rubs his aching back, but heads for the door, anyway. But before he can leave, there's one question that keeps nagging away at Mort's brain. "Hey, Doc. What does 'Kaninchen' mean, anyway?"

The doctor, taken aback by the sudden inquisition, hesitates before answering. "It means 'rabbit' in my native tongue. Vhy'd you ask?"

"Er, no reason. Just curious." And off he goes.

Muttering "vierdo" under his breath, Hartmann returns to the task at hand: tending to his precious "rabbit".


	6. Ch 5: Morning Rescue

**Author's Note:** This is the debut of Valdo, who has a tendency to say things that, er, might be a bit triggering to some of you. It's relatively tame, compared to what's out there, but I figure it's best to warn you guys ahead of time. Plus, I need to fill this space somehow.

* * *

**Chapter Five: Morning Rescue**

* * *

With great reluctance, Mortimer worked round after round, filling in whenever the team was short a sharpshooter. He got backstabbed, shot in the head, and blown up more times than he could count (if he even bothered to count, that is). But he also got in several body shots and even some headshots—not a terrible job for the first day, he believed.

But that was the past. Now, in the present, he's lying down on the worn-down mattress of the fold-out bed in his camper van. He could've slept in the top bunk if he wanted to, but something came up.

_Earlier that evening, after finishing his last shift for the day, Mortimer returned to his and Alan's dorm room, only to find himself face-to-face with a blond, shaggy-haired youth. Shocked as Mort was to see him, the boy looked just as nervous. "Oh. Uh, hey. I hope you don't mind if—"_

_"Vincent? What're you doin' here? Shouldn't you be in the emergency room?"_

_Taken aback by the fact that this stranger somehow learned his name, the youth answered, "I got better, so Hart let me out." _After one day?_ "Anyway, after my little squabble with Pasha this morning, I'd rather spend the night elsewhere. Then I bumped into this guy!" He pointed at Alan, who was sitting upright and looking as jovial as ever. "He said I could sleep over here. Erm, I hope you don't mind, sir."_

_Recalling the argument Vincent had with the big, bear-like man that morning, Mortimer couldn't blame him for wanting to stay away for a bit. "No, not at all! I can always sleep in the camper for the night."_

_Alan added, "You can have the bottom bunk; I like top bunks better." The Spy moved out of the way and scurried up the ladder to the top bed. Vince was awestruck as he motioned over to the bed; clearly, he wasn't used to being on the bottom. He spent an unusually long amount of time fluffing up the pillows and smoothing out the blanket before cautiously settling down. _That blow to the head must've affected him more than I thought.

Mortimer is still puzzled by the youth's awkward behavior. When he asked about it, Al described him simply as "a little different from the rest of us". With that in mind, he wonders how well Vincent does on the field. Jane called him a "spineless little whelp", but Hartmann insists he's as important as anybody else on the team. _What is it about him that makes him so special? _The question is beginning to aggravate him. Not solely because of the mystery behind it, but the envy he feels when thinking about the way Hartmann treats him. The reasoning behind his jealousy is unknown even to him, but he knows such feelings are petty, especially when aimed towards a person he hardly knows. All Mort knows is that he should be asleep by now.

Mort could not sleep a wink last night. Slumped over and dragging his feet along the floor as he heads towards the barracks, he looks more like a zombie than a living man. But just as he passes by the lounge doors, the steamy, bitter scent of freshly-brewed coffee beckons him. Sure enough, on one of the counters in the lounge area is a coffee machine, with half of a pot of that sweet black elixir still there. The newly-awakened Sniper rushes over to pour himself a cup.

"Morning, sir," a voice greets him from behind, almost causing him to drop his coffee. He whips himself around, and is relieved to see it's only Vincent. "I brewed too much this morning, so I'm glad somebody else is awake to enjoy it."

Mort chuckles weakly. "Thanks. You're a real lifesaver, ya know that?" He pauses for a moment, then adds, "By the way, what time is it, anyway?"

"Oh, about five in the morning."

The bushman nearly spits out his drink. "That early? What're you up at five for?"

In a deadpan voice, Vince answers, "Work, duh. Plus, I have to run some errands." He takes a sip.

"But what errands require you to be up this early? Shouldn't you be in school or somethin'?" Mort blows into his cup and does the same.

"First of all, I'm twenty-five. Second of all, you'd be surprised how much I have to do in the morning." Another sip.

"That much, huh? Well, since I got nothin' to do, maybe I can help."

Vincent raises a brow, skeptical. "I dunno... Can you lift lots of heavy equipment and stuff?" Mort nods. "Can you run fast?" He hesitates before sipping his cup while staring up at the Scout with puppy-dog eyes. "Er, alright, then. I doubt you can keep time all that well, considering you don't know what time it is, despite wearin' a watch." Mort glances at his watch (which broke sometime during the road trip) before flashing a sheepish grin in Vince's direction. "But since it's either you or Mr. Doe, I guess you're the better choice. Just stick close to me, and you should be fine."

"Wait, Janey's up, too?" The bushman isn't eager to face the Soldier again anytime soon. Or ever. He's seen what that man can do, inside and outside the field. He isn't sure if he was even human, the way he callously beats and blows up other people, including those from his own team.

Vince nods, a gloomy look on his face. "He always wakes up to do his morning exercises and stuff. He also goes out at night, though for what reasons, I don't really know." From the sounds of things, this "Jane Doe" fellow isn't very well-liked amongst the troops. He chugs down the remainder of his coffee and smiles. "Hey, I've heard that you stopped a fight between Hart and Jane. Since you've proven that much, do you..." He hesitates briefly before continuing. "Do you think you can protect me from him? In case we run into him on the way."

Mort tries his hardest to hide the terror he feels, but his subtly trembling hands give him away. "Sure thing! It's the least I can do."_ What—or who—gave him that idea? It's not like I broke up a fistfight or anything._

Unaware of the shaky mug in the Sniper's hands, the youth's mouth widens to a smile. "Thanks, sir! You're the coolest!"

Vince puts his cup in the trash and runs out the door. A moment after, Mortimer drops his half-empty cup, spilling its contents all over the floor. Today is not off to a good start.

Contrary to his expectations, the two of them are fortunate not to have run into Jane Doe in the midst of their errands. Which is good, because there's much to do before the workday begins. First, they have to buy groceries and other necessities for Hartmann, who lives in a house in the residential outskirts of town. Then they have to help deliver supplies to Teufort (thankfully, the supplier is not too far from their destination). And then there's the newspaper route, and minding the store, and more heavy lifting...

"Do you really do all this every morning?" Mortimer says as he pushes a wooden crate into the back of the truck.

"Not always. The store's just a summer job, and I only help out Hartmann when he asks for it. Which isn't really all that often.." Vincent sets his crate on top of Mort's. "I'm not as bad as Duncan, if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I meant." He accepts the box being handed to him by a Mann Co. supplier, and hands it over to Vince. "I'm just tryin' to figure out why. I mean, you've got your whole life ahead of you—you should be havin' fun!"

"I do so have fun!" He shoves the crate into the truck. "I'm just trying to earn money for... something."

"Earn money? For what? I thought you earned enough from your scouting job?"

"I do! It's just..." He puts down his crate and sits on it. "That money's been goin' elsewhere. Boston, to be exact. The money I'm earning from these jobs is gonna go into buying a new apartment. Great as the barracks are, it feels a little too much like home. Plus, the sooner I get away from Sir Snores-a-Lot, the better!"

Both of them laugh and resume their jobs. "That's a good reason as any to move out. But does Hartmann know about this?"

Whatever joy Vincent felt a moment ago is immediately drained away. "I'd rather not tell him. Not yet, anyway. He still thinks I'm a little kid that needs to be protected. I constantly need to remind him I've grown up since then."

The weight of the conversation is starting to burden Mort. "But he really seems to care about you. Havin' a father that loves you that much is a rarity."

A pause, then laughter. "You seriously thought we were related?"

Now Mort is just confused. "You mean, you aren't? B-but the way he— And when you said— How could you NOT be related?"

"Relax, sir. We get that all the time. But to answer your question, we're not actually related—not by blood, at least. He's just really close friends with my mom. Nothing serious." He averts his gaze and frowns. "I don't even have a father."

"Oh... But you had to have had one before, right?" The bushman's question goes unanswered, and he sullenly returns to the task at hand.

As they leave the warehouse's parking lot, the two of them stop by a diner to have themselves a real breakfast. Despite doing the most running all morning, Vince doesn't order much; bacon, fried eggs, and a glass of carrot juice is enough. Meanwhile, Mortimer—who hadn't had a bite to eat since he woke up—is shoving every last bit of food into his mouth, having ordered one of everything on the menu. (Duncan, who happens to be working at the time, jokes about how he's going to eat them out of business.) After he's devoured his last muffin, he loosens his belt a notch to give his stuffed paunch room to breathe. But his body won't let him rest for very long, as a moment later, his bladder starts crying out.

While Mort leaves to rush to the john, Vincent reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small container full of oblong pills. He takes two pills, pops them into his mouth, and quickly hides the container with one hand while chugging juice with the other. This action, which has become routine to him after so many years, hardly took him more than a few seconds, but those few seconds were long enough for the one-eyed waiter to notice.

"Still takin' those vitamins," Duncan asks in a low voice that only Vincent can hear. "Better be careful—you wouldn't want another accident, like last time, don't ya?"

Though the so-called "vitamins" are already beginning to kick in, the young man is still feeling tense, especially after being reminded of that incident. "Doc says there was a mix-up with the prescriptions. But that's been fixed since. As long as I pay close attention to what I've been given, nothing bad will happen. I'll be fine." He gives a weak smile in an attempt to back up his statement.

The Scotsman isn't totally convinced, but at this rate, he has no other choice but to trust him. "Well, best of luck to ya, kid. Now, who'll be payin' the bill this time?"

Before Vince can answer, Mortimer returns to his seat. "Hey, Duncan! Don't worry 'bout a thing. Jus' put it on my paycheck!"

The path back to Teufort isn't a difficult one, but it's still a long walk from the diner, even moreso on a full stomach. By then, the pills are finally taking full effect, and Vincent feels more relaxed, if a bit spacey. A million thoughts are running through his mind, but he hasn't given a crap about a single one of them. Not seeing any reason to rush, he slows down enough that his bloated acquaintance is able to catch up to him easily. They chat about various subjects, beginning with hobbies and evolving into a discussion about the books they've read. Contrary to his rural upbringing, Mortimer is surprisingly knowledgeable, though his reading speed is a bit on the slow side. (_Dyslexia, perhaps_? The Scout assumes, despite his lack of knowledge on the subject.) When the Sniper first arrived, Vince thought he would be similar to the other Snipers he's encountered: cool, terse, and more than a little bit grumpy. But the more he learned about Mort, the more the Scout believed that he was cooler than any other Sniper in Badlands.

The fun stops when they see a figure standing in the way. Mort looks at the stranger, then at Vince, then back. The person standing before them shares the same exact features as Vincent. The only notable difference between the two boys is the color of their shirts—Vince in blue, and the other in red. Judging by the expression on the blue Scout's face, he's none too pleased with the doppleganger's presence.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" The red-shirted Scout is swinging the aluminum bat with his right hand while his left is fiddling with the dog tags hanging around his neck. "It's the nervous wreck and his newbie friend. How're things back at BLU, _Kaninchen_?"

"Mind your own beeswax, _Baldo_!"

"The name is Valdo, you idiot!" He stops swinging the bat and slams the blunt end of it against the ground. "Say my name right, or I'll knock it into that tiny head of yers." His gaze shifts towards Mortimer. "Hey, Sniper! How'd you like gettin' backstabbed by our Spy the other day?" He flashes Mort a smirk slimy enough to make any sensible person want to punch him.

Vincent whispers to the Sniper to just ignore Valdo. Mortimer hesitates at first, recalling the pain and numbness he felt on that day, but he smiles anyway. "It was enlightening, to say the least. An' don't worry—I'm sure your Spy was jus' doin' what he was asked t' do."

Valdo's batting hand twitches, but he remains as smug as ever. "Good to know at least one of you losers at BLU have some fighting spirit—unlike some Scouts I'd like to mention. I'm almost beginning to like you already." His left hand's no longer fiddling with his dog tags, but have since moved on to Mort's fuzzy chin. "Why're you hangin' around this worthless freak, anyway? Surely, there's people on your team that's more worthwhile. Better yet, why don't you join us? We've got a real bunch of winners over RED, an' we're just cooler." He flashes a grin, which—buck teeth and pretentiousness aside—serves to make him look astonishingly attractive.

"Hmm..." Mortimer pretends to ponder over the question before answering. "Nah. I think I'd rather stay where I am. I've already made a bunch of good friends here." He brushes Valdo's hand away. "Besides, dontcha think it's a bit too soon for job offers? I mean, it's only my second day."

"... Right. Perhaps it is a bit too soon to tell." Dropping his guard, the RED Scout tips his cap and is about to turn away, but changes his mind at the last minute. "But here's a little advice 'fore I go..." He's inches away from the both of them, and his eyes shift back and forth between the two of them. "When you're on the field, it's every man for himself. Those who can't do their job right might as well kill themselves on the spot. Nothin' holds a team back more than a merc who—"

Valdo's advice goes unfinished, as the sound of steel colliding with bone cuts him off. The RED Scout lies unconscious on the ground, and a black combat boot pokes at the bump on his head, where he was hit. As it so happens, the boot belongs to the small Soldier known to the majority of BLU as "Jane Doe". Jane mutters to himself while inspecting the body. "Boy's got a point, but his wording's off." _Almost deliberately so_, he wants to add, but declines the action. He looks up to see the faces of the two BLU mercs he saved and frowns. "Oh. It's you two again. Well, I was just passing by, so don't expect me to save your asses again." He's about to go on his merry way when a voice halts him.

"W-wait," Mortimer shouts at the Soldier before he can venture too far. "You really did us a favor, gettin' rid of that RED bloke. To be honest, he was startin' to get on my nerves." (_Just "starting"? _The short man, his brows furrowed in puzzlement, looks at him.) "B-but anyways, I wanna apologize for what happened in the lunchroom yesterday. I thought you were just an ill-tempered ankle biter, but I guess I was wrong. An' I wanna say... Thank you."

He suddenly wraps his arms around Jane, who struggles to escape his tight embrace. Though he never says anything, the thought is apparently received, as Mort lets go and smiles at him before rushing ahead, re-energized by the positive energy that appears to constantly be emitted from him. Vincent—still shaken up by the RED Scout's words—simply smiles and tiptoes around the Soldier to follow after his friend.

In an instant, Jane is all alone again.


	7. Ch 6: Ties That Bind

**Author's Note:** This is the chapter you've all been waiting for. Introducing Zhen Dou! Okay, but seriously, this is a bit more of a character-based chapter, with very little conflict in comparison to other chapters. It's still relevant, though, so please read it.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Ties That Bind**

* * *

Neither of them have realized how much time had passed since they ventured out to complete Vince's morning errands. Miller orders them to get their ass in gear, and get them in gear they do. Despite appearing in the middle of a match, Mort and Vince manage to adapt to the flow of chaos. It takes some time for Mort to regain his composure enough to aim straight, while Vince's tired, quivering legs eventually gain the strength that allows him to run and jump about the field. One of the advantages of arriving late is that the enemy never sees them coming until it's too late. However, as Mort is beginning to learn, once a Sniper has been spotted, it's crucial that they move out quickly lest they become a target. The RED Heavy—whom the bushman assumed was an unintelligent gorilla of a man—unleashes a spray of bullets at the roost where he resides, injuring him as he flees into safety.

Whilst traveling through this way and that, trying to find that one other spot he found comfort in sniping from, he bumps into a waist-high obstacle of some sort. "Ow!" He wraps an arm around his abdomen, recovering from the impact, but the soreness is gradually replaced by a warm, tingly sensation, similar to the feeling one gets when they lie against a warm blanket or heating pad. The gunshot wounds stop stinging, and are rapidly closed up, fully healed. Mortimer looks down at the obstacle he bumped into, and kneels to its level. It looks like a dispenser of some sort, but it has a bunch of little doodads attached to it, and he swears he can see it emitting some sort of glowing aura. As if by instinct, his hand reaches to touch the machine.

The machine makes a clattering sound, and a small drawer pops out, a cartridge encased inside. Inspecting the cartridge, Mort realizes it's filled with the exact type and amount of ammo he needs. How convenient. Refilling his artillery, he turns away from the dispenser and starts running off when a strange, twitching sensation bites him. Kukri in hand, he scans his surroundings. That feeling he just had, it was the feeling of somebody's presence. But there's not a person in sight... or is there?

Suddenly, an explosion echoes in the distance. Mortimer would have passed it off as one of the Demomen at work, if it wasn't preceded by the sound of buzzing, like a machine short-circuiting. He runs in the direction of the source and stumbles upon a pile of broken parts, the remains of a high-level sentry. Looking around, he finds no sign of Miller. Where his head barks orders to save himself, his gut rebels, and he searches the building for the Engineer.

It doesn't take long for Mort to find him. Lying in an unmoving heap is Miller, bleeding from his chest. Slowly, the pieces begin to connect. The sensation, the sentry's destruction, Miller's death... It can only be one thing. "Spy!"

As if on cue, the Spy comes out of hiding. Unlike Alan, his suit is the color of dried blood, and his graceful, upright stature implies he's been at this for a long, long time. Twirling the butterfly knife with one hand, he slowly approaches the Sniper. "Doesn't take a monkey zhis long to figure zhat out. Zhen again, if you were smarter zhan a monkey, you Snipers would not be such easy targets." He stops fiddling with the knife and holds it straight, as if he is wielding a rapier. "Come now. Let us dance."

Mortimer mimics the RED Spy's movements, accepting his offer, and the duel begins. Mort has the advantage in range and physical strength, but his movements lack grace and speed, and his strikes rarely hit his opponent. "Give up now, filthy dog!" The RED merc quips as he parries the kukri and almost stabs Mort in the eye. The Spy's accent sounds similar to that of his own Spy, but heavier, as if he had lived in Europe all his life. Combined with his graceful demeanor, he resembles—in Mort's eyes—Alan all too greatly. No longer is he angry at the Spy, but rather curious. Where did he come from? Does he know Alan at all? Do all Spies speak French, as he does? Perhaps if they stop fighting for just a moment...

Unwittingly, the blade of his kukri sticks itself into the RED Spy's abdomen. Mort removes the knife, letting the RED fall to the ground. His breathing is shallow, but he's still alive. _"Merde_," the Spy curses under his breath. "It seems zhe fool has won zhis round. Come closer, Mortimer. Tell me... What do you know about zhe BLU Spy, Alan?"

The Sniper's not surprised that his foe knows his name—he wrote it off as a Spy thing a long time ago—but is dumbfounded when he asks about his own Spy. "He's really nice, though a bit odd in the head. Can't say I know much about 'im, but he's the closest thing I have to a best friend here."

The RED Spy chuckles and wheezes. "Oh, how little you know about him! How little you know!" He raises a hand to brush his fingers against Mort's sideburns and whispers, "Tell dear Alan... Daddy's here." His hand drops, and his body stops moving.

Letting dead dogs lie, Mortimer stands up and heads back in the direction where he last found the dispenser. As he probably should have expected, it's no longer there; like the sentry, it died along with its maker. He can hear the Announcer counting down the seconds, but his mind's too far gone for it to matter. As the round ends and his teammates on the field rally about to celebrate, he merely heads back to the locker room. He's in no mood to fight.

"Somethin' the matter, pardner?" Mort turns around, and standing there is the man whom, just moments ago, was shot and left for dead. Though the Sniper is perfectly aware of the Respawn System's effects, it doesn't stop him from feeling the warm sense of relief that Miller's presence brings.

"I, uh, it's nothin', really," Mort sputters out. "Just not really in a fightin' mood today, I guess." He can't tell him about what the RED Spy told him. Spies probably have some sort of confidentiality agreement about these sorts of things. "You feelin' alright, mate? You got in quite a kablooey, I figured."

The Engineer laughs. "Eh, it's hardly anything. Just a Spy doin' his job. Anywho, I'd better get back t' work. See ya around!"

Mort watches the Engineer head for the gates, and before he knows it, he blurts out, "Wait!" Miller, confounded, stares back at the Sniper. "I was jus' thinking... Maybe we can, um, go for a stroll 'round town later today? Get a quick bite to eat? Hang out? Like-like..."

"Pals?" Mort blushes and softly concurs. Miller scratches his chin as he ponders over the proposal. "Well... Oh, why the heck not? Sheldon can take my place." He slides his toolbox into his locker and locks it up tightly. "I know a great place on Blitz Creek Street. We can take my truck."

The entire truck drive over to Blitz Creek Street, Mort's stomach is overflowing with butterflies, all of them as restless as he. But it's not a terrible feeling; he's actually quite ecstatic. Looking out, he begins to notice a pattern in the distribution of the buildings in the commercial area: no matter which turn or road they go down, there is a guarantee that one will never find a BLU-sponsored business standing right next to a RED one.

As Miller explains, mercenaries are—by technicality—allowed to buy or spend their money in any store, but as a means to prevent loophole-induced betrayal, stores will sell the items at obnoxiously high prices to customers on the team opposite their sponsors. "Doesn't stop some folks, though," he says lightheartedly. "'Course, there are some exceptions. Some businesses, such as restaurants an' bars, have a 'neutral territory' policy, which allows for more leeway in prices an' a bit of cross-faction mingling, so long as no one causes a ruckus." Shortly after he finishes his bit of exposition, he catches up to the restaurant—a lavish, pagoda-like building with a bright red roof and decorated with golden lanterns at each corner—and swerves to park his pickup. "Well, we're here. I don't normally eat in these places back at home, but there's a good variety of food here. It's quite interesting."

The two of them enter the restaurant, and Mort stares, absolutely gobsmacked, by the sight before him. Sturdy red pillars rise up to the ceiling, like titans joining together to carry the sky, and above each table hangs large, round lanterns made of red paper. Serpent-like dragons adorn the walls, flying though cotton-like clouds outlined in gold. Waitresses in qipao carry trays of delectable food to the tables. Contrasting with the exotic elegance of the rest of the place is a sign above the enclosed bar in the center, which has an adorable-looking panda mascot decorated in traditional Chinese garb.

Miller drags him over to the nearest empty table. It doesn't take long for a server to notice them and approach them. "Nihao! Welcome to Kanpai's!" The Sniper snaps out of his trance long enough to notice him. The person serving them is wearing a helmet—the trademark of a Soldier—and a red outfit trimmed with gold, the silhouette of which resembles something worn by characters in martial arts films. Unlike the tall, beautiful waitresses walking around, the Soldier is short and boyish in appearance and voice.

The Engineer smiles and says, "Hey, Zhen. This is Mortimer Mundy, our new Sniper. I've been showing 'im around."

The server bows in Mortimer's direction. "Nihao, Mundy-san. My name is Dou Zhen—I mean, Zhen Dou—but you can call me Zhen. Or Dou-san. Whichever you prefer."

"Gaday, Zhen-y. You can jus' call me Mort. No need to get all fancy with me."

"B-but, aren't you my senpai? I mean, my superior?" Noting the confusion on Mort's face, Zhen sighs and continues. "A-anyway, here are your menus." Hands trembling, the Soldier gives the two BLU mercs their menus and rushes to get food delivered to another table.

Miller turns his attention to Mort. "So, what do you think so far? Pretty nifty, huh?"

Not to his surprise, Mortimer's grinning from ear to ear. "This is great! I've never been to an Oriental restaurant before. We never had these back at home." He scratches at his temple. "Actually, I don't think I've ever seen any Orientals back at home."

"Is that so?" Miller smiles, feigning interest in the bushman's conversation. "Then you're gonna love the food." Just hearing the word "food" causes Mort to brighten up and flip through the menu like a madman. _He's an overgrown puppy of a man_, he muses to himself.

Moments later, Zhen returns. "S-sorry for the delay. We're very busy at lunchtime, as you can see. What would you like?"

"I'll have the usual root beer an' ribs, thank you." He hands his menu over to the server and looks at Mort. "How 'bout you? An' don't worry—lunch is on me." As if relieved to hear that, Mortimer proceeds to order a little bit of practically everything the place has to offer, plus a beer. By the end of it, Miller—regretting his earlier offer—repeats bitterly under his breath, "Lunch is on me."

After bringing their big lunch to the table, Mort asks Zhen—currently on break—to sit down and chat with them. Along with other menial things, such as family and the restaurant, they talk about mercenary work and training. "I'm not an official member of RED yet because I'm still a minor, but I am currently in training," Zhen says. "I've been a student at SOLDR for almost six years now. When I graduate next month and turn eighteen, it's only then I can call myself a Soldier."

SOLDR—known as the Secret Organization for Learners of Demolition and Rocket-jumping—is an under-the-radar educational facility which trains children from the ages of thirteen to seventeen the essentials of battle: from bombs to rockets to explosives-based self-propellance to grenade launching, this is the school where many Demomen and Soldiers were made. They don't take just anyone, though: through a long, convoluted process, they cherry-pick from the youths of the world's population and bring them into shelter for training. According to statistics, many of these youths were either kidnapped, or orphaned, or both; Zhen was one such exception to the rule. "I was enrolled because of my family history. My grandbaba was a Soldier, and so was Baba. So it was inevitable that I, too, would be chosen." The youth smiles casually, as if such a predicament was normal.

"Wow! That must be hard work. Maybe that's why Janey's such a hardass."

"'Janey'? Is he someone from your team?"

Mortimer nods. "He's a Grumpy Mcjerkface, but he doesn't seem all bad. Why, you know him?"

"I can't say for sure. 'Jane Doe' is the school's go-to alias for Soldiers—confidentiality reasons. I'm too proud of my heritage to change my name."

_Not that it sounds any different_, Miller wishes to point out. "Well, he's a bit older than you, anyway. Probably too old to be even an upperclassman." _Not "probably"—_definitely. He's done the math in his head.

Zhen sighs in disappointment. "Well, unless he's teaching classes part-time or something, that means I'll have to wait a while longer until I can see him."

Mort, sensing the student's glumness, munches on some noodles. Suddenly, a light bulb turns on in his head. "Unless we bring him over here for dinner!"

Zhen's face brightens up. "Really? Tell him he's welcome anytime! We'll even give him a special Soldier's discount." The Soldier-in-training stops speaking and stares at Mort's hands as he picks at his food with the chopsticks. "By the way, you're using them wrong. You've gotta hold them like this." Zhen takes the Sniper's hands and fiddles around with the fingers until they are holding the sticks correctly, then takes the extra pair Miller left untouched and shows him how to use them. "It's tricky at first, but once you get the hang of it, it feels more like using tongs." Zhen isn't sure why, but holding Mort's hand like this feels weird somehow. As if his kindness and warmth is spreading through to the child's body, burning his cheeks and creating a ticklish feeling in the pit of his stomach. It's a weird feeling, but a nice one, as well.

Under the student Soldier's tuteledge, Mort masters the art of wielding chopsticks in almost no time at all, and he wastes no time in taking advantage of this new skill. Eventually, all their plates are cleared, their leftovers packaged into styrofoam boxes and paper bags, and the extensive bill paid by a weary Engineer. As the BLU duo head back to the truck, Mortimer chirps, "Thanks for bringin' me over here, Miller. You were right—the food was _delicious!_ An' Zhen was a really nice sheila. I hope we can see 'er again soon."

Miller raises a brow. "'Sheila'? Mort, Zhen's a_ boy_."

This revelation shocks Mort, like lightning striking a tree dead-on. "B-b-but she—er, he, he's so small an' cute an'...!" His words devolve into unintelligible blubbering as he attempts to process this information. Standing less than five feet, with chubby cheeks and soft fingers, combined with a high-pitched voice, Zhen could easily pass for a girl, if he wanted to. _An' Lord knows what he looks like under that helmet of his..._

Attempting to prevent the Sniper from suffering a total meltdown, Miller puts his ungloved hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry 'bout it. He gets all of us the first time. Heck, he even threw me for a loop! Alls there is to do is roll with it." Mort takes in the shorter man's words and heaves a deep breath of relief. "Now, you feelin' in the mood to head back?" This time, the bushman is less certain, cringing at the thought of being on the field again; the pain is obvious in his eyes. "Well, I'll let it go just this once. But you're gonna have to head back eventually. No point in bein' here if you can't stand yer ground and fight for yer life. That's the gosh-darned honest truth!"

His shoulders slumped and fingers balled up into fists, Mort replies bitterly, "I know. It's not my life I'm afraid of. It's yours, and Vincent's, an' everybody else's! Respawn System or not, the feeling doesn't hurt any less, seeing everyone around me gettin' killed. How can you treat this like it's normal? It's wrong, that's what this is! I—"

His rant is suddenly interrupted by a slap so hard, it feels not unlike what Valdo must have felt when assaulted by Jane's shovel. The wrist of Miller's gloved hand twitches and rotates as it readjusts itself back to normal. The Engineer's face is contorted with a tranquil fury that Mort has never seen before. His voice matches his expression, though it also quivers with a hint of bitter sadness. "If it's so wrong, then why did you choose to come here? You're a hunter, for god's sake—act like one! We all have to get used to it, watching our closest friends and companions die over and over. It's a cruel game Fate likes to play, and we are all her pawns." He stares down at his gloved hand and mutters, "Just pawns in a chessboard."

Mortimer is unsure what to say; Miller just slapped the words right out of him. He knows he doesn't act like a hunter should, and he knows he never would. So why did he come here? Why travel down this path that he so hated? Well, it was because he happened to be good at it. Recalling the days when he would shoot cans from a distance, just as his dad taught him; the days when he wielded his rifle against wild dingos and other ferocious critters that tended to wander onto his farmlands; the days when he would hunt game, just to vent out his frustrations over recent squabbles with his dad. Because he learned to master the rifle, he chose to make a living out of it, despite his father's protests and despite his own pacifistic beliefs. Though he loathed the idea of taking lives, human or not, it paid good money, and when you're a runaway minor with nothing but a gun and the clothes on your back, you'd do whatever it takes to survive. He's lived more than half of his life in a constant battle with himself, and it wasn't until this man, who, just a day ago, was a total stranger to him, forced him to realize it.

Left with no other choice, Mort wraps his arms around the shorter man and embraces him tightly. Miller is taken aback, and not all too happy with being touched in such a way, but he gradually cools down and awkwardly pats his taller comrade in the back. Slowly, but surely, he can feel the pain seep away from him, leaving behind a feeling of numbness.


	8. Ch 7: The Test of Things To Come

**Author's Note:** This chapter is basically a transition point from Mort's perspective to Alan's. Hopefully, it doesn't become too confusing.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: The Test of Things To Come**

* * *

After sharing that embrace with Miller, Mort decided to return to the battlefield, if not for the Engineer's sake, then for his own. He got into this mess, he reminded himself, and now he's gonna trek through it like a man ought to. It's surprising how used to the idea of death and revival he got, how he could get slaughtered in all manners of gruesome fatalities, and still come back stronger than ever. Perhaps, he thought, this wouldn't be so bad after all. Sure, it's painful, but with every Respawn, he would return with a new found wisdom. It's almost Zen-like, the way he approached this strange fate, and he assumed this was how the others had come to terms with it. Still, he could not help but worry about how this would affect him in the long run, this desensitization to the chaos and violence which had grown redundant to him. Shortly after his last round ended, he thanked his lucky stars that he was a Sniper and not a front-line mercenary.

Returning to the dorm where he and Alan were to reside, he found the Scout nowhere in sight. According to the Spy, Vince made some arrangements with another merc and was to bunk with him until further notice. Mort was relieved to have a proper bed for the first time since he came here, but also a bit disappointed to see him go. Alan then went on to ramble on about his first day on the field; unlike the Sniper, he was a little too happy to talk about backstabbings and sabotage. But the subject reminded Mort of what happened earlier that day, and he had to bring up what the RED Spy told him.

Presently, Alan is sitting beside Mortimer, and on the verge of tears. "Daddy... Daddy's on RED?" No longer does he feel any joy for his occupation; not when he's going up against the very man that raised him. "But why? Why RED? Why not BLU? Did zhey scout him out first?" All Mort can do is shrug. Realizing how hopeless the situation is, Al wipes his tears with the back of his hand. "Well, I suppose it's too late to ask questions now. I'll just have to treat zhis like any ozher test."

"Test?"

Alan nods. "I probably shouldn't tell you zhis, but... Growing up, I was a member of an organization called SPAI—zhe School of Personification, Assassination, and Intelligence. It's a place where they take in kids without homes or past lives and train zhem in zhe art of espionage, particularly the fatal sort." _So it's like SOLDR_, Mort realizes as Zhen's explanation of the organization runs through his mind. "Daddy was one of the instructors zhere. He can do all kinds of things, but disguise is his specialty. He found me and raised me and taught me everyzhing he knows about spying. He's zhe best Spy I know! Unfortunately, I'm a failure as a student. I failed almost every subject, save for intelligence, so zhey sent me over to BLU for further training. I think zhey sent Daddy over to RED to test me. Zhat's why I said zhat, you get it?" Alan's lips curl up into a smile, but it's quite blatantly forced, so he drops the act. "Mort... I'm scared. What if I fail? I'll get kicked out of SPAI, and zhen what?"

Mort wraps his arm around the Spy's shoulders and pulls him closer. "I dunno how things work at this 'SPAI' place, but I do know how it's like to face failure. Or the feeling of it, anyway. I never went to high school. Hell, I dropped out of middle school. I flunked most of my subjects 'cause I could never catch up with the other kids, so I left. Pissed my parents right off!" He chuckles weakly. "But anyways, if you fail a test, what the hell does it matter? It's not the end of the world if you don't get a fancy diploma from some poppycock school. As long as you've learned somethin' in the end, why worry 'bout passing?" Alan stares at him, confused and more than a little uneasy, and Mort pinches his cheek. "I know what you're thinkin'. 'Mort, are you implying that I should give up? That's not exactly a great life lesson to teach to the children.' Al, I never said givin' up's the answer. You gotta keep tryin' your best, regardless of the results. If you fail one test, there'll always be other tests along the way. So keep on truckin', mate!"

He lets go of Alan, and the poor Spy is left dumbfounded, but more thoughtful. Rubbing his cheek, he smiles—genuinely this time—and says, "Thanks, Mort. Zhat was certainly... insightful. I'll keep zhat in mind next time." Pause. "Say, if you never even passed middle school, how would you expect to get a job anywhere?"

"Dunno, exactly. I guess I could take some special courses or somethin', try to get one of them there GEDs or whatever. But I doubt I'd be able to do that much. I'm just an idiot, plain an' simple." He shakes his head, getting rid of the thought. "But this ain't about me. It's about you. And I know for a fact that you can do it. I've seen what you can do—now take it to the next level!"

"I thought you were being sarcastic."

"I... Well, maybe I was at the time. But I know what you are good at, an' it's about high time you took advantage of that."

"What I am good at...?" His eyes turn away, a little lost.

"Think about it for a bit." He stands up. "Now, how 'bout a quick bite 'fore we go to bed?"

The Spy giggles, his lovely blue eyes attracted to Mort again. "Anozher snack? You're gonna make me fat!"

Mort laughs along and pats Alan on the head. "Well, even pixies like you gotta grow."

His touch sends a rush through the Spy's body, flushing his cheeks under his mask. "Ch... Chocolate... cake," Alan squeaks, overwhelmed by nerves. As soon as it came, Mort's hand moves away from his head and he gives him a quick "Gotcha" before walking out the door. The moment he hears the door close, Alan rushes over to the top bunk and slips out a diary (pen attached) from under his pillow. Avidly, he scribbles out the next chapter of his story.

_Eventually, the travelers finally managed to break free from the forest and found their way into a thriving town. During their travels, Archer mentioned to Anonyme that he was searching for Sapphire Castle; his life's dream was to become a knight for the king. As it turned out, the path they were taking lead to the very town he was looking for. What luck!_

_But when they reached the outside of the castle, they were met not by the king, but a pretty young lady in purple. Amethyst was not royalty, but rather a mere servant. To make up for the inconvenience, she showed the hunter and the sprite around the castle. Along the way, they encountered the Seven Knights of Sapphire. The first Knight they met was Rammzig, a kindly, but stubborn man whose hands are burnt and rough from working long hours forging metal. The second was his mysterious comrade, Arson, a masked Knight who could control fire. Then there was Harrington, a speedy youngster who was a little bit high-strung, and Baron, a stone giant who showed little tolerance for unnecessary shenanigans. They also had a rather scary run-in with the ill-tempered Captain Raccs, though thankfully, the one-eyed rogue, Wolfe, stepped in to protect them. In the medical bay was the seventh Knight, Henn Taube, a large man with majestic, bird-like wings—a faerie folk of some sort._

_The Knights saw potential in the newcomers and decided to test them in battle against the Knights of Ruby. It wasn't easy, but Archer passed with flying colors. Anonyme, however, fell ill during her journey, and had to be tended to by Archer shortly afterwards. While bedridden, Anonyme confessed to her fears of failing, especially her father. Archer confessed to her about his past failures, and told her that, no matter what, she should never give up on her dream, and to keep trying until she succeeds. His words warmed the young sprite's heart and motivated her to return to the battlefield..._

Alan shuts the book and puts it back in its hiding spot just as soon as he hears the door creak open. Mort enters, a tray of cake and milk in each hand, and places them on top of the dresser. Excitedly, Alan scampers down the ladder and sits beside the Sniper. Together, they indulge in delicious cake and laugh and chat themselves until they both fall asleep on the bottom bunk. The bed's a mess, and Mort smells awful, even after a long shower, but Alan is too lost in his bliss to care.


	9. Ch 8: Through the Fire and the Flames

**Chapter Eight: Through the Fire and the Flames**

* * *

_Fire. Scathingly hot, he can feel it burning all around him. The creak of wood, the pouring of light rain as it tries to put out the flames. He opens his eyes and looks around. He's trapped in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV and breathing through an oxygen mask. Nothing's burning, not anymore. Listening closely, he can hear gentle, classical music playing in the distance. He can't quite name the tune, but he gets the feeling it was composed by a Russian, or maybe a German. (For some reason, no other nationality comes to mind.)_

_Overwhelmed by curiosity, he unhooks the IV, removes the mask, and steps out of the bed. He walks past the empty hospital beds and heads towards the door at the end of the room. Slowly, he reaches for the knob, when suddenly, a pair of hands grab him from behind and pull him into the darkness._

Alan's eyes widen and he shoots himself up. The bed is the same as it was before, but Mortimer is no longer beside him. Dread wells up inside of him as he slips out of the bottom bunk and steadily climbs to the top one. Pulling out his diary, he lowers his pen towards the paper... and stops. This wasn't the first time he's had that dream. It's not always as it was last night—sometimes, he would be trapped in the bed while the fire surrounds him, sometimes the kidnapper would attack him from the front, sometimes he would hear nothing, but see everything—but regardless of how the pieces are arranged, it was still the same dream. He had also attempted to write it down in the past, but whenever he tried, the words would escape him—almost as if something was holding him back.

He hears a soft, childish giggle echoing in his ear. "Bad dream, Herr Astor?" Alan twists around to figure out who said that. He finds nothing, but a sudden chill permeates the area close to him. Nervous, he clambers down the steps and digs through his drawers for something new and clean to wear.

Alan's always had a weakness for wanting to stand out. Though SPAI has a strict dress code, which student and instructor strive to uphold, he would find ways to alter it while still adhering to it (most of the time). Even his haircut goes against school standards, which specifically states that their hair not surpass a certain length, to keep it easy to conceal under their trademark balaclava. Today, he's decided to pass on the suit jacket—the weather's much too warm for that, anyway—and don a navy blue vest bearing the same pinstripe pattern. Additionally, he wanted to add a feminine touch to his attire, and thus picked out a blouse with poofy shoulders and tied a cute bow around the collar. The mask had to stay, much to his chagrin. Finely dressed, he takes his dirty laundry and happily skips out of the showers and towards the laundry room, ready to take on the day.

All eyes are on Alan as he walks through the doors to the cafeteria... or so he likes to think. In reality, he's received little more than the odd glance here and there, along with an occasional mutter questioning his gender or sexuality (which he brushes off, because they are—to some extent—undeniably true). But positive or not, as long as the illusion of having captured everyone's attention is there, there's little point in worrying about the little things. He strides over to the line and picks out his minuscule breakfast.

The room is packed with perky early birds and grumpy not-so-early birds, and the Spy is finding it increasingly difficult to find a spot anywhere. Eventually, he finds a table that's empty, save for a sole figure: a giant, balding bear of a man. The man is eating a mound of scrambled eggs and bacon, along with what appears to be a sandwich of some sort. Alan cautiously approaches the giant and asks, "Um, is this seat taken?" while pointing at the seat across from him. (Up close, this man appears to be even taller than Hartmann, who was already titanic in size.) The large man grunts and shakes his head, and Alan thanks him as he claims the spot.

For a long while, the two of them eat in silence, Alan finishing his meal in a quarter of the time it takes for the giant to finish his. After an eternity and a half, the giant says, "I didn't realize new Spy was girl."

Alan's eyes widen like saucers. "Uh, I'm not a girl... Zhat is to say, I got a... Well, I'm a guy. Sort of."

"'Sort of'? You are either boy or girl. Is not that difficult."

"It's not like zhat! I mean, I have guy parts, but I, erm, I sometimes... Well, it's more of a mental thing, you see?"

"Maybe." He takes a bite out of his sandwich. "So you are sometimes boy and sometimes girl. Iz this some sort of Spy thing?"

"No, it's just a 'me' thing." The conversation is wearing out Alan more quickly than he expected. "Say, aren't you Vince's roommate, Pasha?"

The man grunts and nods. "He is roommate, but not friend. Doktor and I do not get along."

"You mean Doctor Hartmann, right?" Pasha nods again. "But I've seen you two in battle. You two seemed to work pretty well zhen."

"Doktor is incompetent. Cannot charge, can barely heal. Prefers fighting to protecting."

"Now, I'm sure zhat's not true. I've seen zhe good doctor, and I think he really does care about you guys." Pasha says nothing, and continues to eat while Alan speaks. "Yeah, he's a little bit grumpy and violent, but I think if you give him a chance, he'll lighten up. I mean, he seems awfully nice around Duncan, and especially Vincent. And Mort's really taken a liking to him. So maybe if you can talk to him..." He trails off, not wanting to finish his statement. It's becoming clear that sappy friendship speeches are Mort's forte, not his.

Pasha's eyes shift back and forth, as he chews. Then he swallows and says, "Do not talk about Hartmann. Talk about yourself. What does teeny Spy like?"

Alan is dumbfounded; he's never expected to be asked so directly. "Wait, me? Oh, well, I like pretty clothes... and books... and writing and art. I doubt you'd be interested, though..."

Surprisingly, Pasha's face lightens up. "You like books? I love books, and reading! I studied English back in Soviet Russia, taught it, even. Of course, you would not know from my speaking. I read and write much better than I speak. You say you write, yes? What do you like writing?"

"I mostly just write in my diary. Silly little stories about fairies and knights in shining armor. Childish stuff, really."

"Nothing wrong with a little fantasy. I prefer literature, more down-to-earth stories, but sometimes I would pick up Tolkien or Lewis. Science fiction tries to be like realistic fantasy, but is too pretentious for me." He finishes off his sandwich and smiles. "When you finish writing story, let me read it first. I like seeing other people's writing."

Alan stutters a bit before smiling back and replying, "Yes. I definitely will." A pause, then: "Say, Pasha, I don't suppose you have any advice on writer's block, have you?"

Pasha, about to leave, turns his attention to the Spy. "Many of my students had same problem. I tell them to just write things plainly and simply. It looks bad on paper, but leetle by leetle, what they have in head will eventually come out. Just write, and it will come to you." And he's gone.

His words keep spinning over and over in his head._ Just write, and it will come to you..._ For a man who, based on appearance, speech patterns, and occupation, appears stupid, Alan had never felt more inspired by any other man. Well, except maybe his father and Mort, but they're special for different reasons. Pasha was the first person to whom he had ever confessed to writing a story, or keeping a diary, or loving books. Though being a bookworm was not something to hide, for Alan, the fact that he writes as a hobby is something he preferred to keep to himself. After all, the stories he writes represent a part of his soul, and to casually show that part of him to somebody is unthinkable. _But Pasha seemed eager to read it. And he didn't laugh when I told him I liked fantasy. Maybe I'll let him read a tiny portion of my story... when I'm feeling a little braver._

The Spy did not do too well at first. Wholly unfamiliar with the enemy team dynamics and overly eager to put his masks to use, he disguised himself as a Sniper when the team had none that round, and thus made himself an obvious target. Then he de-cloaked himself too early, exposing himself to the Engineer before he had a chance to defend himself. Then there was that situation he got himself into when his backstab missed, leaving him open to the Medic's bonesaw. But as he became accustomed to his surroundings and enemy, he proved himself capable of slithering in and out of the enemy's base with the intelligence in hand. He recalled what Mortimer told him, about taking advantage of what he was good at, and it wasn't until he got onto the battlefield that it finally clicked. Disguises—one of the Spy's main gimmicks—are not his specialty. However, his hacking and intel-collecting abilities are par none, at least compared to other young Spies he can think of, especially when combined with his nimbleness and agility. Perhaps his bookworminess isn't a total waste of a talent.

Inspired by today's events, he rushes right over to his diary and opens it. He skips a page ahead of his last entry and starts writing. Nothing too elaborate, just enough to get the basics down.

_Fire. Hospital bed. Music. Mysterious figure. Dragged into darkness._

After putting down the keywords, he presses the pen against the paper and continues, struggling against his increasingly fogged-up psyche.

_Ballerina in black. Orphanage. Two kids. Hannah? Sklcanieacewrsdllriercherdfacheioshrescherlslsklas cerisfcersifcerlsfhtfttaceraceradcioarneiolcenrieo s_

At this point, his mind is drawing a complete blank, so his pen is being controlled solely by instinct, his wrist moving loosely like a doll whose joints are worn out. Snapping back to reality, he slips his diary and pen back under the pillow and lies down. He doesn't recall seeing anything about ballerinas or children in his dreams, and he definitely never met anyone significant named "Hannah". So why did he write those words? And why does his mind become hazy when he tries to record anything involving his dreams? Something is holding me back, I just know it! He blinks and closes his eyes, and the world fades to black.

Suddenly, he hears giggling again, same as this morning. "Is somezhing wrong, Aninnyme?" Alan sits upright and—with cold, emotionless eyes—stares straight in the direction of the voice. Standing at the foot of the ladder is a young girl, with snow-white skin and long, ivory hair. Her clothes are a mishmash of accessories and garments belonging to various mercenary classes, making it impossible to tell just what her specialty is.

"My name is Anonyme," he says, his voice flatter and more feminine in tone and pitch. "I did not expect to reawaken so soon, but 'Alan' was getting too nosy. That's the problem with artificial personalities: they grow too comfortable with their host bodies and become unstable."

The girl frowns. "He doesn't seem so bad. I think I like him more zhan you."

"Anonyme" shows no signs of contempt, but they start climbing down the ladder, prompting the girl to step aside. "Miss Alterheim, please consider the situation. If this behavior of his continues, I will be forced to override him completely. Sir Petrinni created 'Alan' as a means to distract him from the truth of his past, that way he—that is, we—can achieve what he had always wanted—"

They stop speaking, as they lose their footing and have to be supported by the "Alterheim" girl's hair, itself a controllable, limb-like entity. "The perfect Spy," she finishes for them. "Ja, I know. Still pretty ambitious, if you ask me." Helping Anonyme out the door, she blurts out, "Wohin gehst?"

"Out." In an instant, the one who calls themselves "Anonyme" is gone.

According to the note they took from the intelligence suitcase Alan swiped earlier that day, the meeting spot should be under a tree in the local park. Anonyme knew the note was meant for them, as it took the form of an innocuous-looking grocery list, a set of coordinates in the guise of something apparently useless. Having patrolled the area the night before, they have a general idea of where most of the town's landmarks are, including the residential outskirts and the restaurant known as "Kanpai's". They arrive at the stroke of midnight, spotting the silhouette of a tall figure underneath the tree. Under the pale moonlight, the figure's sharp features are accentuated; his broad shoulders, his crooked nose, his prominent cheekbones.

They approach the figure and bow, a tiny smile creeping upwards. "Hello, father."

The figure—holding a cigarette between two long, slender fingers—steps forward, narrowing the distance. "What have I told you about calling me zhat, Anonyme? You are to call me 'Sir Petrinni' and nothing else." He drops the cig—at a distance uncomfortably close to Anonyme—and crushes it. "Report your progress."

No longer smiling, Anonyme reports, talking as if reading from a script read a million times over. "'Alan' is beginning to show signs of self-awareness, moreso than usual. While his behavior has not changed much, he is suspecting a pattern in the recurring dreams he has been having, and had recently uncovered bits of his memories previously unreported. Though fortunately, he has yet to find a clear connection. Physically, he appears to be doing better than usual, possibly as a result of the rookie Sniper's doting personality. But emotionally, he is feeling... conflicted."

"Conflicted? Over what? Explain."

"I am uncertain of the details, but he seems to have... feelings towards the Sniper. Strong feelings. Strange feelings."

"I see... Well, then. Carry on."

"But fath—Sir Petrinni! If this continues..."

"Zhen he will become easier to override. Once you do zhat, you will no longer have to worry about zhat pest." Petrinni's hands grasp Anonyme's shoulders and squeezes them tightly. "You can get your body and identity back. You can finally be free, O Nameless One!"

Anonyme's eyes widen for a moment, taking in this information. "Yes..." A tear runs down their eye. "No longer will I be the Nameless One. I will become Alan Ian Astor..._ forever_."


	10. Ch 9: Soldier of the Night

**Chapter Nine: Soldier of the Night**

* * *

For being late to work one too many times, Hartmann punished Mort by making him work the night shift for the next two weeks. Grumbling about how blown out of proportion this punishment was, Mort heads for the fortress. While there are fewer REDs to fight, there are also fewer BLUs around to interact with, thus making these shifts duller than any other. Plus, there's the fact that he's stuck doing janitorial work, cleaning the blood and dirt off the floors and restocking the ammo in the Resupply room (wait, you mean the Resupply isn't just magically unlimited? Blasphemy!). On the bright side, the view is simply majestic, with the moon looming over the RED fortress and sparkling on the waters underneath the bridge.

As he sweeps the dirt out the door, he hears the skittering and chattering of the creatures of the night. Two glowing, beady eyes stare at him for a second, then scatters off in search of food. Mort can't help but smile; he hasn't had the chance to see many animals since he came here. But his joy doesn't last for long, as another sight forces him into hiding. Peering out from behind a wall, he watches as a figure travels across the bridge into RED. He cannot see the figure's face, but he has a rousing suspicion that they're not here to clean house, er, fort.

As soon as the figure is barely within sight, the bushman makes his first move. He's no Spy, but years in the Outback have taught him the benefits of being stealthy. Armed with his trusty blade, he warily approaches the mystery person, taking care not to catch their attention.

_CREAK!_

One toe lands on a wobbly plank on the bridge, and the figure whips their head in his direction. Thankfully, Mortimer proved himself agile enough to avoid getting caught—though it certainly won't be easy getting himself up from underneath the bridge. Grabbing hold of the edge, he clambers up and over the waist-high fence that lines the walkway. Then—more cautious of the flimsy boards holding him above water—he tiptoes his way to the other side.

His journey is interrupted by a single call. "SPY!" The shrill sounds of gunfire and booms of bombs going off echo loudly from the fortress. Having sworn he felt a bullet fly by his cheek, instinct takes over and he jumps right into the river. Under the shadow of the bridge he waits, listening closely for a ceasefire. In a moment, all is silent, save for a sigh of relief vented from his lips. Sodden with smelly river water, he finds himself in no condition to clean after himself, instead running straight for the barracks. _Screw the Doc's orders—I almost lost my life!_

But wandering largely unfamiliar territory in the dead of night proves to be quite the task. Lost and alone, Mortimer wants nothing more than a warm place to sit down and rest. As he stumbles about, his ears catch a soft, lyrical sound. Curious, he follows the sound, hearing the twanging of the notes as they grow louder and clearer. Eventually, he catches a wisp of orange light in the distance, and begins to walk faster. As he predicted, the source of light is coming from a campfire, set up and lit by the source of the sound: the Engineer, plucking away at the acoustic guitar in his hands.

"Miller?" Mort says, a mix of relief and puzzlement in his voice. "What're you doin' out here?" Not bothering to wait for his permission, he settles down and starts stripping. "I thought you'd be asleep by now."

Too exasperated to deal with Mort's shenanigans, Miller replies, "Sometimes, I like to just sit under the stars an' play my music." He stops playing and shows off his guitar; he's clearly quite proud of it. "So what're you up to?" He takes note of Mort's stringy, dripping hair and wringing excess water from his blouse. "Did it rain earlier?"

"Jumped into the river," the Aussie grumbles. "I tried to tail somebody coming into RED, but I think they're gone by now."

"Oh. Well, that would certainly explain all the ruckus." A raccoon squeaks as it runs by. "Looks like Janey's up to something."

Mort blinks. "Janey's up, too?" _When isn't he awake, anyway? Does he even sleep?_

He nods and points at the raccoon running off. "Jane tends to the 'coons this time of night. He's had more than a couple of run-ins with RED's night watch because of it."

The two of them watch the stripe-tailed critter rush in the direction of what Mort recognizes as the fortresses. "We should help 'im. It wouldn't feel right if he got himself killed over a couple of 'coons."

"Not a couple," a voice says from behind Miller. Turning his head, he and Mort see Jane Doe, cradling a young raccoon in his arms while several others circle and climb on him. "A whole family. They've been taking residence around the forts, especially RED's." Jane's voice softens as he speaks. "I thought it'd be safer if I brought them to the barracks."

He bows his head, trying to hide the disappointment that must be clear on his face, especially to Mort, whom he'd rather not get involved in his personal issues. Unfortunately, the Sniper has a habit of meddling into others' affairs, and this time is no exception. "Can I help? I can't guarantee nothin', but it's obvious you can't do this job yerself."

From under his helmet, Jane's eyes peek at Mortimer's eager, borderline dopey smile. With some reluctance, he answers, "Put on some clothes and follow me. We can catch Lieutenant Blackstar together. Milller, bring his kids to the barracks." He shoves the baby raccoon in Miller's arms and starts walking in the direction where the raccoon—_Lt. Blackstar?_—ran off, followed by Mort.

Finding Lt. Blackstar is not too difficult, as Jane knows the animal's nightly rounds by heart. The hardest part is getting close enough to the RED base to retrieve him and running off without getting caught. Through a stroke of luck, a fresh crop of BLU mercenaries have come out and begun their shift, providing the perfect distraction while the two sneak out back to corner and retrieve the raccoon. They stop short when spotting a Sentry propped right in front of the foxhole where the critter leapt into. Barely avoiding the gunfire, the Sniper whips out his rifle and shoots at the turret from afar, destroying it in three shots. They rush over to the hole and try to goad Blackstar out, using sweet talk and treats Jane had on him. Blackstar is a stubborn creature, but with enough bribing, he eventually gives in and pops out of the hole straight into the Soldier's arms. They make a mad dash for the barracks before the other RED mercs can find them.

Finally reunited with the rest of his family, Lt. Blackstar and his pack run around the barracks, digging through the trash cans and dumpsters like the adorable vermin they are. Watching their little antics sends a feeling of relief and joy to Mort.

"Thanks," the Soldier says, his voice low, but lacking its usual harshness.

Mortimer is thrown off by this comment. "For what?"

The youngest raccoon runs up to Jane's leg, and he picks it up and turns to Mort. To the bushman's surprise, Jane appears to be smiling. "For everything."

It is then that it finally hits Mort what he meant. "It was nothin', really! I... I'm sorry 'bout all the crap I said the other day."

"Don't worry about that. I get it all the time." Playing with the little kit in his arms, he continues. "I know I'm not a pleasant person to be around. I'm rude, I'm loud, I'm bossy. I know what I am. But sometimes I wonder if I'm just a nuisance to everybody. Vince isn't very good at his job, despite being around here longer, but everyone seems to like him better, even Duncan." He puts down the raccoon and avoids Mort's gaze by pretending to observe the others playing. "Let's face it: everyone's better off without me."

"That's not true! Sure, you might be a handful, but you're anything but useless. I was talkin' with Duncan that day. He may be busy an awful lot, but it's obvious from the way he spoke that he cares about you. Hell, he even put you before work—that's gotta count for something! An' when he handed you over to Hartmann, that's because he trusts him to protect you, not 'cause he's annoyed by you. I've seen what you can do in battle. You're strong an' bold an' just amazing! Not like me."

Jane pauses before turning to face Mort. "Well, you are kind of a wimp, and pretty stupid, too. Not to mention lazy. But you always seem to know what to say, even if they're ridiculously sappy. And you're oblivious to the most obvious things, yet you somehow notice when somebody's feeling down or angry or disappointed. I don't understand how you—a rookie who hasn't even been here a week—could even tolerate me, let alone want to help me. Not to mention the way people and animals seem to act around you, like you're freakin' Snow White or something." He crosses his arms. "I don't like to admit it, but despite your lack of skill in battle, you're the one that seems to be holding everybody together."

For a long time, Mortimer does not speak a word. Then, he belts out a hearty laugh and pats Jane's helmet. "Aw, Janey, aren't you just the cutest thing?" As the laughter dies down, he places his hand on his shoulder. "Thanks, mate. That was totally cheesy, but I needed that." Suddenly, he bends down and embraces the tiny Soldier, not letting go until Jane kicks him in the groin and leaves him in the dust.


	11. Ch 10: Faster Than a Speeding Bullet

**Chapter Ten: Faster Than a Speeding Bullet**

* * *

"MORT!" Hartmann bangs his fist against the door. "You better get out of zhere, or else I'll do vorse zhan two more veeks of janitorial duties."

Mortimer grumbles and rolls the blankets tighter around him. "Dun' wanna."

The fat doctor growls under his breath and breaks the door down. "You're gonna get out of bed, and you're gonna get to vork!" He approaches the bottom bunk and rips the blanket from Mort's hands, causing him to roll out of the bed and onto the floor. While the Sniper lands face-down on the floor, Hartmann grabs him by the collar and lifts him to his feet. Then—strangely—his tone becomes far more affable, as he slaps Mort's back and pushes him towards the now-doorless exit. "Now, off you go!"

As he heads downstairs for the cafeteria, Mortimer stretches and cracks his aching back, the stubborn grogginess slowly fading away from his brain. By the time he gets his breakfast and finds an empty seat, he's feeling much more awake. A moment later, Vincent joins him. Compared to his own excessive meal, Vince's breakfast is modest, his plate adorned with bacon, buttered toast, and a small salad with a glass of orange juice. "I hope Hartmann wasn't too harsh on you, sir," he says with a bashful smile.

Mort laughs nervously. "Actually, he broke our door down. But I think he's learning to control his strength, compared to his earlier attempts." As he says this, memories of Hartmann's morning ritual flash through his mind, and he cringes as he could hear and feel every bone in his body breaking again.

"I see..." Vincent himself had similar experiences with the doctor, though they were less the fault of laziness and more an attempt to toughen him up. "Well, he always puts his heart into everything, so it might come across as a little over-the-top. He can be a bit harsh, but he's helped me out a lot in the long run."

"I dunno how throwing me out of bed is gonna help me out." He looks down at Vince's plate. "Your meals are always so tiny. Don't you get hungry while working? I mean, if I was runnin' an' jumpin' around all day, I'd be starvin' to death before the sun goes down!"

"Of course I do, sir. I take small meals throughout the day, and balance them out for maximum efficiency. You know what they say: a healthy body leads to a healthy mind." Mortimer never so much as heard of that phrase before, but he finds it sensible enough, so he shrugs it off. "You seem to have a healthy appetite as usual, sir."

Mort stammers and says, "Actually, I've been tryin' to eat less, to keep from gettin' sick during the mission. Why're you so stingy 'bout food, anyway? You always act pretty old for a kid. Is this Doc's doin'?"

"I've always been a bit mature for my age, but I suppose being raised by Hartmann affected me, as well. I also enrolled in a prestigious boarding school as a kid, so I've been trained to be efficient."

"Boarding school? Isn't that for fancy rich kids or somethin'?"

"Well, yeah. But it's kind of a specialized school, so even if you're rich, you might not qualify. See, it's kind of a place for students that require, um, special accommodations. But it also helps them discover their talents and tailor their curricula to hone them—so they advertise. Being a New England school, they have high standards, so they have a pretty heavy workload."

"So you must be pretty smart."

"Actually, I'm a pretty average student—don't get me started on art. But I did really well in physical education. I was on the track team in high school, and did a bit of weight lifting every now and then."

Mort nods, noticing the Scout's muscular arms. "Well, when you're dealing with Doc everyday, you're gonna have to be strong." He chuckles.

"He would want me to do my best—he paid for my tuition, after all!" He looks up at the clock hanging on the wall and panics. "Oh, my gosh! The next round's about to start. We've gotta go NOW!" He grabs Mort by the hand and runs out of the cafeteria, their meals left unfinished.

As they wait for the gates to open—a sign of the mission's start—Vincent does some quick stretches when Hartmann approaches him. "Guten Morgen, Vincent. It's strange zhat you'd arrive here zhis late. Has zhis dead veight been slowing you down?"

"Oh, not at all. I think he's gotten more punctual, thanks to you."

"I see..." He highly doubts that Mort has improved much, if his attitude this morning was any indication. "So, are you prepared zhis morning? You've taken your pills, right? Have you been eating vell?" Vince answers yes to every last one of his questions. _He's being unusually doting today._ "Ah, thank goodness. Vell, I've got vork to do elsevhere, so I can't stay long. Good luck, Kaninchen." He pats Vince in the back and walks out.

The gates fly open, and all the BLU mercenaries rush out the doors, guns and bomb launchers and melee weapons in hand. Despite being the fastest member of the bunch, Vince is the last to leave, taking an alternate route and carefully approaching the battlefield. Armed with his pistol, he aims and fires at the Heavy lumbering towards the bridge, dodging the rain of bullets that fly his way. With some assistance from a stray rocket or two, the large man is promptly executed, leaving his Medic ally open to fire. He switches to his scattergun and runs towards the bridge, joining Pasha, Duncan, and Jane in mowing down RED's defenses. He barely dodges the enemy Sniper's arrow as he tries to outrun the Sentry's missiles, and manages to gun down an incoming Soldier or two. But for the most part, he's spent a majority of his time avoiding danger whenever he can as he searches for the safest route to the intel room.

"BONK!"

The BLU Scout suddenly feels a sharp, throbbing pain in the back of his head as he falls to the floor. As his assailant's shadow prepares to strike the final blow, he rolls over to the side, letting their weapon—a baseball bat decorated with the BONK! brand—crash into the ground beside him. Standing atop of him is a RED Scout that looks exactly like him, save for the droopy-eyed glare he's shooting. Valdo. "It's been a while, big brother. We should spar, like we used to when we were kids." Vincent dodges another strike from the Scout's bat and gets up on his feet. "Things have gotten boring without you around. It's almost like you've been _avoiding_ me!" He slams the bat against the wall, creating a large dent. "Though I must admit, it's been fun toying with that baby birdy up in his nest. I just love screwing up his aim with my little antics." A crooked grin distorts his face. "Come on, _Kaninchen_. Let's play!"

Seeing no other choice in the matter, Vincent swaps out his scattergun for his baseball bat, and successfully blocks Valdo's overhead swing. The two engage in a dance of bats, exchanging blows and parries, in a manner not unlike that of sword-fighting. Valdo is the more cerebral opponent, his speed matched only by his penchant for underhanded techniques, such as tripping up his twin to drop his guard. But in the end, by gaining the upper hand through a surprise blow to his opponent's ribs and finishing with a swift swing to the head, Vincent's sheer strength wins over his brother's dirty tricks. As a reward for his victory, the BLU Scout swipes the suitcase—which had fallen to the floor in the midst of his duel—and is about to run out of the base, when a sharp pain shoots him in the spine. As he blacks out, he can hear the Spy whisper, "My apologies," as he dissolves into nothingness.

Thankfully, Valdo did not show his face in the next round, so Vincent did not have to worry about wasting his time fighting him. But as he and his gang headed for the intel room, he had the misfortune of running into the newly-respawned enemy Sniper, who—like Hartmann—was an especially aggressive sort for his class. After dealing in a hand-to-hand sparring match with him, he kneed him in the groin and finished him off with a gunshot blast to the head. _A perfect waste of time_, the Scout thought as he reunited with his team for a well-deserved victory.

He went on for several more rounds before calling it a day, realizing he hardly ate anything in the last few hours. His head dizzy from hunger and pain, Vincent stumbles into the locker room and collapses.

_It was a peaceful weekend day in the neighborhood, and all the kids were running about outside. Vince and his seven brothers were playing a casual game of baseball on an empty lot surrounded by a busy street. "Casual" meaning there were hardly any rules or scores to be kept. To them, the fun was in hitting a ball as hard and far as possible and running around like an aimless loon. Though the rule-abiding eldest brother, Valter, found the game difficult to follow, he eventually shrugged it off as part of the whimsy of children and joined along. All was fine and dandy... until it happened._

_Vincent, playing in the outfield, watched as Valdo went up to bat, his face stoic while his brother, Vier, taunted him with immature (not to mention unoriginal) chants. As he stepped onto the plate, Valter stopped to give him suggestions on the proper stance—suggestions which Valdo took to heart, seeing as how, unlike most of his other friends and family, he was not as keen on the subject of baseball. Once in position, the young boy concentrated as Vier threw the ball._

_"Strike one," Valter called out as he threw the ball back to the pitcher. Valdo swung again; another strike. But on the third attempt, he heard the crack of the bat, and all the kids stop to stare as the ball went flying, turning into a white speck as it disappeared over the wooden fence. Valdo's feet were stuck to the ground, unable to move as he watched, awestruck. Then Vince saw Valter mouth out the word, "Run!", triggering the twins into running. Vince, unaware of his surroundings, chased after the ball, which bounced and rolled on the street._

_"LOOK OUT," Valter shouted as he ran out of the lot, followed by his curious siblings. But Vincent, too slow to notice and react on time, had to be pushed aside. He didn't know what happened at the time, and it only took a second to realize the consequences. Lying in the middle of the street, stained in blood, was Valter. Unable to turn away, Vincent sat there, staring in shock as the image gradually ingrained itself into his psyche, where it continued to haunt him for days on end._

Vince gasps as his eyes burst open and shift back and forth. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lighting, but as they clear up, he can make out the faces of Mortimer and Hartmann, both of which are creased with worry. Hartmann sends graces to the heavens as he embraces the Scout. Meanwhile, Mort hands him a slice of carrot cake and some ginger ale "to ease your tummy". As he accepts the food offering, Vince smiles and stutters a thank you. "But you really didn't have to do all this for me. I could've helped myself."

"Not in your condition, you vouldn't have," Hartmann says as he pinches and pulls one of Vince's ears. "Zhis is vhy you need me. You keep vorking so hard, vithout ever stopping to take a break. I thought you vould've learned by now, because you keep making zhe same mistake over and over!" He lets go of his ear and crosses his arms. "You say you vant to be independent, yet you lack zhe ability to take care of yourself. So as punishment, you are to stay vith me until you learn better."

Mort chuckles nervously as he feels the tension rising between the two. "Doc, dontcha think you're overreacting a bit...?"

"Bullshit," Vincent snaps. "I was doing just fine until today. If you'd just quit babying me, maybe I can make some actual progress!"

"I did not see any progress. Vhat I saw vas you regressing to your former self."

"I worked for over half a workday before passing out. And I held up in a fight with Joey!"

"Vincent, a monkey can bring down Joey. Zhat's hardly vorth bragging about." The Scout doesn't argue back—he knows the doctor was right about that one—and he seethes in silence as Hartmann slams a container of pills and a glass of water on the counter next to him. "Now, take your pills. You get any more tense, you'll risk a panic attack, or vorse."

Vince sullenly obeys, then takes some bites from Mort's cake, slowly eating the stress away. Between bites, he mutters, "I would've won the first round for us, if Valdo didn't get in the way."

Hartmann tenses up. "Valdo?"

He weakly nods. "I thought he was to be transferred elsewhere, but I guess they brought him back."

"He was a mighty pain in the arse, he was," Mort butts in, tired of being the third wheel. "Try as I might, I just can't get a good shot at 'im. It's almost as if he's fucking with me."

"He's always like that, sir—especially with Snipers. Best not to let him get under your skin." What he said is mostly true: though Valdo always had a habit of trolling with Snipers with his superhuman agility, he seemed to have taken a liking to Mortimer in more ways than one, so Vincent believes.

"Still, if he's defending for Teufort..." The Medic's brows furrow as he scratches the back of his neck. "Zhis feels more like an omen of things to come."

Mort frowns and raises a brow. "I know he's annoying, but he can't be that bad... is he?"

"Valdo thrives on making Vincent's life a living hell, and vill go through excessive lengths to do so. Zhis sort of sabotage—even if targeted towards a specific target—vill destroy our team as ve know it." He glances at Vince. "And he's not zhe only one vith a bone to pick. In zhis line of vork, you're bound to make a nemesis out of somebody."

The air between the three of them becomes grim and heavy, and the doctor tries to make quick work to eliminate it. "Since you're here, I might as vell put you to good use." Whipping out a clipboard and pen, he scribbles something down, then hands the written form to Mort. "Zhis is an outline for zhe prescriptions I need. Head down to zhe pharmacy to pick zhem up, and bring zhem back to me immediately. Don't ask questions, just do it. Now, off you go!" He pushes the bushman out the door and slams it behind him. Turning back to Vincent, his expression becomes forlorn. "I'm sorry about earlier. You can keep living in the barracks, but under one condition: Mortimer vill be your bodyguard."

Vincent almost chokes on his food at the mention of the Sniper. "You're kidding, right? I mean, Mr. Mundy's nice, but he isn't exactly bodyguard material."

Hartmann laughs. "Of course I'm aware of zhat! But he's a good fellow, and zhe two of you seem to respect each other enough. Plus, he seems to have a bone to pick vith Valdo; zhat's a plus."

"You make it sound as if you _want _my brother dead."

"Oh, I know for a fact he vouldn't do zhat—I'm certain he's incapable of hating anybody zhat much. I'm assigning him to you precisely because I know zhat." He ruffles Vince's hair. "Doctor knows best!"

Hartmann excuses himself and makes a short trip to the restroom. All the while, Vincent is left to mull over the so-called "doctor's orders". _I know Hart's looking out for me. But why drag Mortimer into all this? And all this because of Valdo. What's going on? This can't be right._

By the time Hartmann returns, the Scout is long gone.


	12. Ch 11: Rabbit-Hearted

**Author's Note:** Finally, after a lot of character art and hype, Joey Buckman finally makes his proper debut! And two other members of RED make an appearance.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Rabbit-Hearted**

* * *

Mortimer enters the pharmacy and is greeted by a long line of people. A good lot of them are civilians, but there are also a handful of mercenaries scattered about, such as the RED in front of him. The RED, while not as massive as Hartmann or Pasha, is nothing to sneeze at, towering over him by half a head. Judging by the attire, Mort assumes he must be a Sniper, though he looks meatier than the lanky ones he usually encounters (though he can't really call himself slender, either). Under the stranger's Outback hat is long, golden hair, tied back in a ponytail, and—Mort recognizes the second he sees it—a tanned face half-covered in scars. His mouth opens into a wide smile as he blurts out, "Joey! Is that really you?"

The stranger turns around, revealing the full extent of his injuries, though his face still manages to look handsome—and equally happy to see Mortimer. "Morty? Good lord, it is you!" He picks up the BLU Sniper and hugs him tightly. "It's been ages since I've seen ya! How's life treatin' ya?"

"Great," Mort says, struggling for air. "Can you put me down... please?"

"Oh." Joey gently sets him back on his feet. "I see you got accepted into BLU. But what're you doin' here? Didn't you say you were gonna be a doctor or something?" He snaps his fingers. "You got hired as a Medic, didn't ya? I knew you could do it!"

"No, I'm not! Actually, I'm a Sniper."

"A Sniper? But bein' an animal doctor was your dream job, wasn't it?"

"Don't get me wrong, it still is. It's just..." He trails off, crestfallen. "Well, shortly after you left, I flunked out of school."

Joey gasps in shock. "Flunked out? Whaddaya mean, you flunked out? I tutored you the whole time we were buds, an' you're tellin' me that was for nothing? I oughta crush your stupid head 'cause you're so stupid...!" His hands, clasped against Mort's temples, were primed for doing just that, but he gives up and lets go with a sigh. "It's your old man, isn't it?"

Mort nods. "Sorta. But it's not like I was smart enough, anyway. If it weren't for you, I'd have never survived middle school."

"Right you are about that. You were always a little wimp, lettin' everybloke push you around like some kind of... non-sentient mannequin-thingy!" Mortimer chuckles; Joey, normally eloquent, can never come up with the right words when his emotions take over. "But you seemed to have survived this long without me. What the hell happened when I was out?" Mort explains how he ran away and fended for himself, relying on odd jobs and the kindness of strangers, and Joey listens with an ounce of skepticism in his expression. "Is that so? Kid, you're such a goody-two shoes. No wonder you let people push you around. Still, that's pretty bold of you, running off without turning back. Perhaps you're stronger than I believed you to be."

"Aw, I'll never be as strong as you! I just acted like I usually do. Sure, there were some strings attached, but kindness hardly comes without a price these days."

Hearing Mort's story, the RED is immediately reminded of the tale of Cinderella. He never believed such stories could ever happen in real life, let alone so close to home, yet here is the living proof of such possibilities. "You're an idiot, Mort. But you're a lucky idiot. Lucky, goody-two shoes Mortimer." It's painful to admit, but he cannot help but be envious of his old friend. Best to change the subject. "So, what're you here for?"

Mort's mind takes a moment to remember. "Oh! I'm just running an errand for the doc." He removes the form, folded neatly in his pocket, and skims through it. "He asked me to get some prescriptions, but it's all gibberish to me."

"Lemme see that." Joey takes the form and reads it, murmuring to himself. "Anxiety, antidepressant, appetite stimulant... Wolfsbane?" He hands the paper back to Mort. "It's mostly painkillers and psychiatric meds. It's signed off, so just hand them that sheet, simple as that."

"Ta, mate." He pockets the form. "What about you? You on an errand, too?"

"Yeah, 'bout the same as you. Plus, I gotta get some ointment; my scar's actin' up again. An' maybe some painkillers an' bandaids. Those Scouts can pack a wallop, ReSyst or no!"

"Scouts? Ya mean Vince an' Valdo?"

"Yeah, those two. BLU kid put up a good fight, but Val gave me one for losin' to his bro." He realizes the speed of which the line has shrunken. "An' the doc'll do the same if I don't get this in on time!"

Following after Joey, Mort frowns as he thinks about the implications behind his words. "Joey, are you sure you're alright?"

Joey hesitates. "I'll live. I'm used to it by now." As the civilian in front of him takes their prescription and leaves, he steps forward and slips out a form to hand to the nurse at the counter. Staring at the RED Sniper's bare forearm, Mortimer notices a large bruise located in the same area where his humerus—_Is that what they call it?_—would be, along with some scratches and what appear to be bite marks. The wounds seem random at first, but the more he tries to imagine the scuffle that might have happened, the worse the outcome. By the time Joey retrieves his order and walks out of the pharmacy, Mort is left frozen in terror.

He was hardly back for more than a minute when Hartmann gave him the news. "He's _gone?_"

"Ja. I've searched all over zhe barracks und asked around, but nozhing." The doctor swipes the prescription bag from Mort's hands and turns away. "Go gather your Spy friend und find him—now!" He points at the door—an unnecessary action, as the Sniper easily understood the message and was already gone by then.

Vincent had left the barracks overall and headed for the town. He knew perfectly well the consequences for disobeying Hartmann's orders, but he needed to get away for a bit, to walk around and think things over. Thanks to the anti-anxiety medication and the exercise, he's become more relaxed than he was earlier, and can think more clearly. Looking around his current environment—the lush greenery of the local park—he begins to wonder when was the last time he stopped to smell the roses (metaphorically and otherwise). Speaking of roses, he notices a familiar-looking red shirt and promptly averts from him. _Holy crap, it's Joey! Maybe if he doesn't see my face, he'll ignore me and go about his business of not beating the snot out of me._

"Oi." Body trembling and eyes wide like saucers, Vince turns his head to look up at the tall and intimidating Sniper approaching him. _Too late._ "You're Mort's friend, aren't you?" Vince weakly nods. "I jus' wanna say congrats for putting up a good fight." _Wait, what?_ "I have to admit, I wasn't expecting much from what I've heard about you. But you really proved me wrong. And you don't seem like a bad kid. So I thought... Well, I guess what I mean to say is..." He holds out his hand. "Ya wanna hang out sometime?"

Vince can do nothing but stare at the Sniper's sheepish grin and accept his hand. "Um, okay, I guess. You did well, too, I guess. Are you a friend of Mr. Mundy's?"

"Yeah. Never expected to see him 'round these parts. Almost like Fate wanted us to meet again."

"Wait. Did you see him recently?"

"Saw 'im at the pharmacy some time ago. Speaking of which, I really oughta head back." He looks around, then says, "Um, you don't happen to know where the barracks are, do ya? I'm kind of new to these parts, an' my ride left without me."

"Oh, sure. I can't lead you all the way back, obviously, but I can escort you to the forts, at least. It's pretty straightforward from there."

During their trek back to Teufort, the two of them chatted about work, then moved on to more personal subjects once the topic got awkward. Vince started talking about his brothers, but turned silent when the mention of his twin's name caused the taller man to wince. "... Sorry."

"Hn? What's there to apologize for? He's your brother. What goes on between him and me is our business. 'Sides, he's not as terrible as you think he is."

"I know he isn't. But still, as the older brother, I feel like I should be responsible for his behavior."

"Don't blame yourself. His behavior, his fault. You've got nothing to do with it."

Vincent stops to look at the bruises on Joey's arm. "Where did you get those bruises?" Joey falls silent, the answer obvious from his averted gaze, and the Scout starts welling up in guilt and shame. "I'm sorry."

"Quit that! You're even worse than Mort, ya know that?" Vince, startled by his outburst, shuts up immediately. Realizing just what's done, the Sniper tries to make up for it, however tenuously. "S-sorry. I didn't mean to..." He sees the bright red pagoda in the distance and points at it. "How 'bout we have tea? My treat."

Once they settle down at Kanpai's, the two of them are greeted by Zhen Dou, who serves them their food. Considering he hardly ate the whole day, Vincent allows himself to indulge in slight excess, ordering an assorted bowl of rice, beef, and veggies. Meanwhile, Joey orders a hearty meal of marinated meats and saucy noodles. Though Zhen was preoccupied with serving other customers in the restaurant and bar, every once in a while, he would catch a glance in their direction and smile. When he finally returns to them, he happily hands Joey some coupons and contact information for the restaurant, whilst also sneaking in his personal phone number.

As they walk out of the restaurant, Vince jokingly comments, "It's only first day here, and you've already got a girl's number. You're quite the ladykiller, Joey!"

Joey says flatly, "Vince, that server was a boy. His posture seemed straighter and more masculine, as if he's trying to compensate for his small size. He also has a more prominent jawline, a huskier voice, and his shoulders are flatter and slightly broader. And his handshake feels awfully strong for a mere food server, though that's more a determinant of occupation than gender. Also, he smells funny."

"Okay, now you're just pulling my leg."

He opens his mouth to protest, but is interrupted by a voice calling Vince's name. Suddenly, the Scout is ambushed by a slender figure in a blue dress, causing him to instinctively throw them over the shoulder onto the ground. As he's holding down the figure—"Spy?"—he's approached by the name-caller, who is currently stuck in Joey's headlock. "Mr. Mundy?"

After letting their captives go, Mortimer explains that he and Spy had been searching all over the town for them, and Vincent, having explained his and Joey's side of the story, apologizes for causing them trouble. "Aw, it's no drama. Glad to see you're in safe hands." He flashes a grin in Joey's direction. "Since we're all headin' for the same place, y'all can ride in my van."

Joey smiles politely. "Thanks, but I think I can handle things from here. 'Sides, I can't risk letting our teams see us fraternizing with the enemy." Then, as he spots a taxi pulling up to the side of the road, he shouts "See ya on the battlefield!" and runs towards it, leaving the trio of BLU mercs behind.

Save for the unusual spot in which it parked, the taxi appears—to the unobservant—to look and act like any other taxi would. However, as soon as Joey settles himself into the backseat, the driver sheds his uniform, revealing a man in a red suit and balaclava. He's not alone, either: sitting in the passenger seat, hidden from outsiders by a tinted window, is an elderly man in white. "Did you get it?" the elder asks, his calm voice tinged with an underlying impatience. Joey nods and holds out the prescription bag for him to take. As he inspects the contents, he sighs in satisfaction. "Ah, yes. Gut. Everyzhing is here."

"You took your lovely time, though," the red-suited man interjects, his accent adding a sense of deviousness to his tone. "Did somezhing happen between you and BLU?"

Reluctantly, Joey answers, "I met an old friend of mine, an' Valdo's brother."

"And by 'old friend', do you mean Monsieur Mundy?" Like a magician, he slips a pair of photos from his sleeve and displays them to the RED Sniper. "I would suggest picking your friends more wisely, Mr. Buckman."

Contrary to the driver's skepticism, the elder sounds oddly curious. "'Mundy', you say? As in _Mortimer_ Mundy?" Joey can only nod in silence, his gesture picked up through the rearview mirror. "Vell, zhis is certainly an interesting turn of events. Amusing, even. In fact, I zhink I can make zhis vork to our advantage." The elder flashes a grin at the mirror, and the Sniper, staring at the reflection, shudders in fear.


	13. Ch 12: Ceasefire

**Author's Note:** This chapter is actually a prelude to a two-part series of "meanwhile" stories, which together make up chapter thirteen. As a result, this chapter is rather short and plotless in comparison. I was on the fence about releasing this, but I figured I owed you guys, anyways.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Ceasefire**

* * *

For several weeks, they fought, RED and BLU, and their victories were scattered, adding up to a perpetual stalemate. After many achieving many wins and many more losses, the Administrator had announced an order for a ceasefire. The rookies, not expecting a break from action so soon, were confused and relieved. As Duncan explains, whenever circumstances arose—such as signs of stalemate or a drop in resources, or an emergency situation—both teams would receive a ceasefire order, thus halting all mercenary activity until the issue is resolved or whenever the boss calls for it. "Until that happens, ye'd best enjoy the downtime you got."

Ecstatic, Mortimer, Alan, and Vincent chat all morning about the things they can do during their time off. Alan suggests going clothes shopping, having noticed Mort's lack of variety in his wardrobe. Meanwhile, Mort rambles on about the new fair that just opened up and how he's been dying to go visit it. When it's Vince's turn, he agrees with both their plans, while adding, "Hartmann's been nagging at me to get a new swimsuit lately, though he hasn't explained why. And I think I'm gonna need new clothes at this rate." He tugs at the collar of his shirt, an artifact from a time when he was a few years younger and not nearly as broad-shouldered.

After breakfast, the three of them set off for the clothing store in search of swimsuits. Alan dons a girlish, vintage style body suit that ties into a ribbon in the back of his neck, while Mortimer rushes to try on a speedo that accentuates his better assets. But Vince finds himself in a bit of a bind, as most of the store's offerings conflict with his own conservative tastes. As mens' body suits gradually fall out of style in favor of swim trunks and speedos, he cannot fathom the idea of baring himself for the world to see.

"Just get some trousers an' put a shirt over the rest of ya," Mort suggests bluntly.

"Well, I suppose that's true." Vince sorts through a selection of shorts and tops that he picked out just moments ago.

Alan picks up a pair of shorts and gasps at the tag on the interior belt. "I expected it to be smaller, but you and Mort are zhe same size!"

Flustered, Vince snatches the shorts from the Spy. "I might've gotten a bit bigger around the waistline the past few months. But it's mostly muscle, so it's no big deal."

"Waitaminute, really?" Mort pops in, swiping the same pair of trousers Vince was holding. "I need proof of this!" He runs into the fitting room and slams the door shut. After a couple of minutes of grunting and pulling, he cracks open the door and pops out, revealing the shorts stuck halfway up his thigh. He whimpers, "I think I'm the one that got bigger."

As Mort slips back into his own pants, Vincent points out, "You know, for someone who's not much of a runner, you've got pretty strong-looking thighs. Do you work out or something?"

Opening the door, he says, "Oh, naw! I jus' got girly hips, is all. Kids used t' make fun of me for 'em, an' they caused me all kindsa trouble, but I've learned to deal with it since. I'm surprised ya never noticed earlier."

"I-I have, actually. But I never thought to bring it up, because I thought it'd be rude if I did. Er, sorry, sir."

"Aw, it's no drama." Mort leaves the fitting room and starts sifting through the selection of trousers. "That's what we're here for." He finds a pair of shorts that resemble the ones he was trying out earlier, only a light shade of tan and a couple of sizes wider. Laying them in front of his crotch and thighs, he smiles in satisfaction. "These oughta do it." He throws them in a pile with his speedo and a few shirts that caught his eye early on.

Finishing up for the day, the trio heads over to the register. First is Mortimer, whose outfits are light in color and fabric, and more fit for warm weather, though rather tacky. Next is Vincent, whose clothing is also practical, but a bit more tasteful. Finally, the cashier rings up some rather fancy and feminine garments, leading them to refer to Alan as "ma'am". After leaving the store, they head to the diner to have lunch and chat with Duncan.

With the ceasefire in place, the Demoman has more time to dedicate to himself. "But Janey's been kind of antsy since the announcement. He can't stand a moment when he's not blowin' up stuff."

"Sounds like he's got a lot of pent-up energy to release," Vince says with a nervous chuckle.

Mort gulps his food down. "But what about that family of raccoons he got out back?"

"They can take care o' themselves, fer the most part. The lad needs more _human_ friends, anyway."

For the first time in the conversation, Alan speaks. "What about Aiden? I've seen Jane talking to them some occasions. Maybe zhey're secret partners in crime, or lovers!"

Duncan's elvin ears perk up, dumbfounded. "Bullshit! I never heard or seen anything about this. Tell me more."

"Well, from what I've noticed, a lot of zhe conversations are initiated by Aiden, yet Jane never lashes out at zhem. In fact, he seems a lot calmer around Aiden, sometimes even smiling. Which can only mean zhey are lover—"

The Scotsman covers the Spy's mouth with one hand, while stroking his beard with the other. "So the little Pyro's what makes 'im jolly, eh?" He uncovers Alan's mouth and slaps him in the back instead. "Thanks fer the intel, lass!"

While the so-called "lass" wallows in his praise, Vince strikes up an idea. "If you want them to bond, why not take Aiden to one of your monthly camping trips? I'm sure he'll lighten things up, so to say."

"Nah, too much trouble. 'Sides, that's the only time Janey an' I have any time alone."

Alan sports a cat-like grin. "_Alone?_ Do I hear a hint of jealousy in your voice, Mr. McCullen—"

"It's not like that." Duncan sighs and turns to Mort. "How 'bout you? Any bright ideas?"

Mort scratches his scruffy sideburns. "Well, it's not really much, but there's always the fair..."

"You're just saying zhat because you want to go zhere," Alan butts in.

"Mann's Fair, eh? That has got to be..." Duncan's lips curl up into a grin. "The most brilliant idea you've ever had! You're a genius, Mort!"

"He is?"

"I am?" Mort almost chokes on his food. "No, no. Alan's right: I was bein' rather selfish when I said that. I thought maybe we could all go, an' leave Janey an' Aiden to their own business while we go have fun elsewhere."

Duncan says flatly, "Lad, you seriously don't realize the amount of genius yer spewin', are ya?"

"Trust me; I'm no genius." Mort isn't certain what he had done, but he feels as if he had just unleashed a monster.

At the base, Hartmann announces a group meeting in the lounge room. The lounge is crowded, with Mort surrounded by his fellow teammates, along with a few strangers who might as well be nameless, on account of how generic they look. At the center is the host of the meeting himself, who claps loudly and sternly orders silence in the room. "Now, zhen. As you all know, zhis veekend marks zhe Fourth of July, so our superiors have ordered a ceasefire. Zhat means a three-day vacation for all of us!" Everyone cheers. "But because I don't have any confidence zhat you vill be able to do anyzhing productive at all during your break, I have decided to schedule a little field trip for all of us." Some of the mercs groan at the thought of being treated like schoolchildren, but they are immediately silenced by a few shots from the doctor's syringe gun. "Tomorrow, ve are all going to zhe beach! Now, isn't zhat exciting? If any of you have any problems vith zhis, you'll have to take it up to me."

The reception to the news has taken a turn towards the positive, with only a few mercs showing signs of concern or contempt. Among the concerned is Aiden, who quivers upon hearing the word "beach". Being obligated to reveal themselves to the world and step into a large body of water filled with God knows what kinds of weird, potentially dangerous creatures and foreign objects that could be hidden beneath that shimmery, salty surface? No, thank you!

Thankfully, Miller is by Aiden's side. He's the only one who understands them, the only one who knows about the Pyro inside and out. He approaches the fat doctor and raises a hand. "Hey, Doc. Ya got a second? We need to talk." The Engineer takes Hartmann off to a spot far out of Aiden's hearing range, and they have a conversation, which, from the Pyro's perspective, seems to have suddenly taken a grim direction. Once they finish speaking, Miller returns, a crooked smirk on his face. "Good news, little buddy: you're good to go."

Relieved to hear this, Aiden starts slipping through the crowd, hoping to escape into solitude, but is stopped by an imposing, dark-skinned man. The dark man hands her a pass to the fair. "Mort gave me an' Janey tickets to go to the fair tomorrow, but I'm goin' with Hart an' the others. So I figured, since ya don't got anywhere to go tomorrow, you can join along with 'im. Janey don't like the beach much, anyway. Whaddaya say?"

Aiden is reluctant to take the ticket. On the one hand, they can hang out with Jane for an entire day, but on the other, they may not be able to enjoy it alone, just the two of them. Still, the opportunity is too good to miss. Their fingers grab hold of the ticket, and they nod. "Thank you," Aiden's voice, husky yet girlish, says, the message distorted through the filter on the gas mask.


	14. Chapter 13A: Fun Time at the Fair

**Author's Note:** This is the first part of a two-part chapter. The two parts take place on the same day, at approximately the same time, thus the split. In this chapter, Aiden and JD finally get a bit of spotlight, so I hope you enjoy them and their antics, even if it's just for a short time.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen A: Fun Time At the Fair**

* * *

The next morning, Aiden wakes up to the sound of the egg-shaped alarm clock—a cute little device Miller built purely for their pleasure—and is dismayed when they find the bottom bunk to be empty. As they inspect the dorm halls, jiggling doorknobs and listening closely to signs of the usual hustle and bustle, they come to the conclusion that everyone had already left. Glumly, the Pyro heads downstairs, where a whiff of smoked beef and baked bread tickles their nose. Following the scent, they end up in the lounge room, where a vast array of breakfast foodstuffs awaits them. Most of the food is set on the countertop, beside the coffee machine, but baskets of biscuits and fruit center the long table, taken out during formal meetings and set aside for more casual get-togethers.

Sitting on the far end of the table is Jane Doe, munching on a plate of sausages and soggy pancakes. Watching him stab his breakfast with such unabashed enthusiasm, one could easily mistaken him for a child playing with his food. Spotting the Pyro, Jane urges them to sit with him. Aiden timidly complies, and they share a moment of awkward silence before saying anything. "So... You have any idea what's at the fair?" Aiden lets out a muffled "huh?", and Jane shakes his head. "On second thought, don't say anything. I'd rather find out myself." Pause. "Duncan's a good cook, isn't he? He and the other cooks made all this, just the four of them. I bet you'd do well, too. Though I'm not sure if flambés count as cooking." He and Aiden laugh. "I don't think the fair's gonna open for another hour or two, so we've got a lot of time to kill. And since hardly anybody's here, aside from the staff, we've basically got the place to ourselves!"

The Soldier elaborates on his harebrained scheme as he fiddles with the food on his plate. According to his plan, the two of them are to raid the storage areas for equipment, and then sneak into the RED barracks, where they'll sabotage their main water supply and flood the building, forcing them out while they take anything that looks remotely important. While Aiden is curious about what secrets the enemy team might be hiding, they are not certain if resorting to (potentially fatal) high-school level pranks is such a good idea.

In the end, however, they could not access any of the storage areas, due to them being locked down for security reasons. "This is stupid! There's nothing fun to do at all!" Jane sulks as he storms ahead of Aiden, who's distracted by the flowers growing by the park gate. "Well, I guess we can hang around and stuff. But just until the fair opens." Entering the local park, he feels like a fish out of water. Though Jane has gone on many trips with Duncan to the forests at Thunder Mountain, he rarely has ever felt at peace. Being in a place where such peace is an obligation does not relax him any.

Aiden, on the other hand, is a sight to behold. With a bit of urging, he managed to get Aiden to slip out of that fire-resistant shell and put on something nice for once. A full-figured young lady with shoulder-length crimson hair, she looks even younger in the blue-and-red sailor uniform Miller bought for her. Though she tried to put on makeup to cover up the burn scars that mar half of her face, she still opted to brush it over with her bangs, giving her a gloomy appearance. The surgical mask is more for her health than vanity; she finds it hard to breathe otherwise. Though Jane had his suspicions, he never expected her to look so... cute.

"Look, Janey!" Flower in hand, she hurries over to Jane. "Isn't it beautiful?" She thrusts out the flower, and he recoils at the sight of a slimy, wriggling snail hanging on the leaf. The redhead plucks the snail from the leaf and tosses the flower aside. "I think I'll name him Jerry. What do you think, Janey?"

The Soldier winces and trembles even more as she thrusts "Jerry" inches away from his face. "I think you should keep Jerry away from me!"

"Oh. Sorry." She gently puts Jerry down on the ground and watches him crawl away.

As the guilt starts building up inside him, he looks at his nonexistent watch and says, "I think the fair's about to open. We should start heading over. Maybe you can win a goldfish, or even a real life unicorn!"

Her eyes lighten up at the mention of mythical equines. "Really? What're we doing, standing around here? Let's go!" She grabs the sleeve of Jane's blouse and starts running.

Moments later, they reach the entrance gate of the Saxton Fair. Staring at the sea of people causes Aiden to freeze up, but when Jane holds her hand and smiles, all her fears melt away. After showing their passes and receiving their tickets, they make a head start for the attractions. Jane quickly finds his niche in playing the largely reflex- and strength-based games, as he shoots, throws, and whacks his way to victory. While not as strong as her partner, Aiden is no pushover, as her sharp eyes and impeccable sense of timing have given her an advantage at the shooting gallery and even won her a goldfish.

But what really catches her eye is a giant, pink, stuffed unicorn, resting on a stool next to a peculiar-looking man in a turban and robes. "Come, young lass and lad. If the plush mythical equine is what you seek, then that you shall get... if you can pass my test."

Jane steps forward. "Name your test."

"Your name is James Dorian Sullivan, yes?"

For a split second, he falters. "Yes, I think."

"You think? Does that mean you do not know?"

"Yes—I mean, no! M-maybe."

"You boast with confidence, yet you lack it yourself. If you remain clouded by this uncertainty, you will fall." He gestures to the Pyro. "Next." Aiden reluctantly approaches the man. "Ah. Miss Aiden Flynn! Good to see you're in good health. Now, then... Are you scared of anything?"

"I-I... Water. I'm afraid of water."

"It is not water itself you are afraid of. Rather, it is the memories that water forces you to reflect on. From its clear surface, you see the scars of your past, and from the skies, you feel the tears of pain you shed. Do not fear the water. Drink! Swim! Cleanse your mind until it becomes clear and pure!"

Aiden's nerves become more and more frazzled by the man's words, which were unusually accurate for someone whom had only been given a brief hint of her true feelings. Still, despite the eeriness of his cryptic statement, his advice is clear and sound. "Thank you. I will."

A smile creeps up on the man's face. "You passed the test! Here's your prize: a life-size Balloonicorn!" He hands her the plush unicorn, and the two exchange goodbyes and part ways.

"What was that guy all about," Jane asks, still miffed at what the strange man said to him. "He thinks he knows everything. I say he's a load of—"

"Janey, do you think you can give me some water? I'm getting thirsty." Jane cocks his head in confusion, but complies, returning with cotton candy and a bottle of water. "Thanks." She lowers her mask, takes a sip, and smiles. "It's hardly anything, yet I feel like I accomplished something."

"What, drinking water?"

Realizing how silly that sounded, she mutters, "N-never mind. Let's go home." She points at the goldfish in Janey's hand. "Navy Captain Goldfinnigan needs a better home than this plastic bag!"

Jane blinks. "Navy Captain...?" His mouth stretches to a cocky smirk as he holds up the fish bag. "You mean Navy _Commander_ Goldfinnigan, Terror of the Seas!" The two of them laugh as they start moving towards the front gate.

As the sky burn with the colors of fire, they arrive at the barracks, where they drop their new fishy friend into a round, glass bowl they found in the kitchen. After bickering over where to put him, they come to a compromise and leave him in the center of the lounge table, where everyone can admire his sparkling orange scales. (Fish are known for being attractive and relaxing to stare at, especially in places that are dull in the first place.) A little bit later, they climb to the roofs of the BLU fortress and sit together, watching the sun set.

"You know, I really had a lot of fun today," Jane says. "I never expected to enjoy anything that didn't involve lots of explosions."

"There were guns, though," Aiden points out.

"Water guns don't count."

"They do to me!"

"Right, 'cause you're a Pyro. I almost forgot." He chuckles.

Aiden giggles, then frowns and turns her gaze towards the crimson sky. "Janey, do you remember anything about your past?"

Jane glances at the Pyro's half-covered face and shakes his head. "Nada. For some reason, everything before my thirteenth birthday was all a blur. The only thing from it that I remember..." His hand slips over Aiden's, and he clenches it tightly. "... is you."

"That's what I thought." She turns to face him and smiles. "I can't make you remember everything, but I can always try. We'll wish for it together."

"But my birthday's already passed. It's not like we can blow out more birthday candles for the heck of it."

"Then why not wish on that star?" She points at the setting sun.

He hesitates, and then grabs both her hands, clasping them between his own. "Alright. Let's do this." They lean towards each other, their foreheads touching, and they silently spell out their mutual wish as day turns to night.


	15. Ch 13B: Beautiful Day at the Beach

**Author's Note:** This is the second part of a two-part series chronicling the various members' vacation. In this chapter, we return to our usual group of mercs, and introduce some new members, as well. Originally, this one was also supposed to have that "anime filler"-esque feel like the other one, but the ending changed all that.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen B: Beautiful Day At the Beach**

* * *

"Here we are—BLU Ocean Beach!" Hartmann parks his car and starts removing the bags and beach chairs from the trunk. Vincent, carrying the cooler and umbrella, almost drops them upon seeing the great expanse of water before him. Beauty aside, there's also the numerous possibilities of danger lurking beneath, from seaweed that could tangle and bind to a swimmer's leg, to rocks and coral that scratch, to great whites and killer whales and anglers and Leviathans and...

"Vincent? _Vincent!_"

The Scout is abruptly slapped out of his daze, his back stinging from the pain. "You vere spacing out again. Take a deep breath and relax." Setting up the towels and beach chairs, Hartmann continues. "You don't have to swim if you don't vant to. Zhere's more zhan one vay to enjoy a vacation." He helps Vince set up the umbrella, then kicks back on a chair and starts rubbing sunscreen on himself.

"Are you going in the water," Vince asks as he plops the cooler between the two chairs.

The Medic belts a hearty laugh. "Oh, of course not! I am perfectly intent vith doing absolutely nothing today. Here."

He takes the bottle of sun lotion from Hartmann and applies it all over his body. "So it's just a lazy day for you, isn't it? Don't you get bored of doing nothing?"

"Kaninchen, I know you do not understand zhe meaning of such concepts as 'fun' and 'relaxation', but all I am asking is for you to start enjoying yourself. Don't think about vork or your brother, or zhe Kraken vhich may or may not be in zhose vaters. Just concentrate on being happy!" With that, he whips out a book from his bag and starts reading from it. Figuring he would ignore any protests he makes, Vince gets up and walks over to the shore.

Picking up a scallop with a shiny, pink interior, Alan gazes at it longingly before bagging it. As he catches a glimpse of Vince from the corner of his eye, he turns to wave at him. "Oh, bonjour, Vinci!"

"Hey. Um... The swimming cap and goggles I can understand, but... I still can't believe you're wearing that," Vince says while pointing out the girly, ribbon-adorned one-piece Alan is wearing.

"Well, it's my swimsuit, so zhere!" He sticks his tongue out. "You want to pick seashells with me? It's fun!"

The Scout stammers. "Uh, maybe a bit later. Have you seen Mr. Mundy?"

The Spy jabs his finger in the direction behind him. "He's right over there, making sand angels. Maybe you can join him; he looks like an idiot, doing that by himself."

Seeing no other choice in the matter, Vincent walks over to where Mortimer is, and receives a sudden kick of sand in the face. As he rubs the grains from his eyes, he coughs, "Hey! What'd you do that for?"

Mort stops flailing about and sits up. "Sorry 'bout that, Vinci. Didn't notice you there." His dopey grin shines brightly. "Hey, lie down with me! We can make sand angels together."

"I, um, all right. If you say so." He does as the Sniper suggests and lays his back against the hot sand, staring at the blue sky above. "So, um... You seem to be having fun."

"'Course I am—it's the beach! There's lots of beaches back where I came from, but I rarely get the chance to go to one. My mum an' dad are the 'stay-at-home' sort." He mutters with contempt, "'Specially dad."

"You don't seem to get along with your dad very well."

"I don't. But that doesn't matter. I never cared much for the beach, anyway. I'm having fun just bein' here with everybody."

"Even doing nothing in particular?"

"Bein' able to do nothin's the greatest blessing a man can have in his life. You'll understand when you get older."

"I'm twenty-five."

"Still a kid."

"You're hardly that much older!"

"Just five years more experienced."

Vince crosses his arms. "Well, you still act like a kid."

"I'm a kid at heart. What can I say?" He rolls on his stomach and closes his eyes. "As a kid, I wanted nothin' more than to grow up. Now that I am, I want nothin' more than to be a kid again. Weird how life works."

"I guess..." By then, his eyes are closed, and he can feel his mind drifting. Though he cannot see them, he can recognize the waves crashing against the shore, the muffled voices of his teammates as they dawdle and play, the cries of the gulls, the shuffling footsteps of a stranger approaching...

Suddenly, his nerves feel the sting of hot sand splashed across his skin, and his body recoils. As Vince frantically brushes the sand off him, a shadow looms over him and Mort. "Having fun, big brother?"

He hardly needs more than a glance to know who it is. "I was 'til you came, Baldo."

The intruder, Valdo, growls and kicks a large wave of sand in, which the two BLUs manage to shield their faces in time. "I thought I told you not to call me that!" He jabs a finger in Mortimer's direction. "You, me, beach volleyball. Winning team claims right to this territory."

Mort simply laughs. "Oh? An' where's your team? We outnumber you seven to one."

Valdo sneers and points a thumb over his shoulder. "Perhaps you should talk to your leader; he's havin' a spat with Dante as we speak."

Shocked by the news, Vincent makes a mad dash towards where he last saw Hartmann, and finds a crowd of mercenaries, BLU and RED alike. A line had been drawn in the sand, and standing at the forefront of each side is their respective teams' Medics: Hartmann and Dante. With a stocky build, long, snow white hair tied back, and gentle features, Dante is aged like a fine wine; some of the mercs back in Teufort have joked that he could pass off as Mort's father if he wanted. The Scout cautiously approaches the two, hiding behind his allies as the argument ensues.

"What do you mean, your beach? Zhis is 'BLU Ocean'—it clearly belongs to us!"

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Dante calmly tells him, "I am afraid you are mistaken. Zhis beach is known as 'RED Sunset', named after zhe beautiful crimson sun. Unless you are villing to challenge us, I am afraid you must leave."

"You're on!"

"Eager as alvays." The ivory-haired doctor smiles. "Unfortunately, it appears zhat zhere is a slight imbalance in our numbers. On your side, you have seven, vhile I only brought myself und four others. You know vhat zhat means, don't you?"

Hartmann's features distort in rage, and he calls his team to huddle together. "Alright, guys, ve have to vin zhis! Which one of you sucks at sports?"

Spy raises his hand. "I faint easily. Does zhat count?"

"Vhat about you, Miller? No doubt you've got a thing or two up your sleeve."

"Ya know I always do."

"Mort, you know anyzhing about volleyball?"

"Not at all! Is it fun?"

"I suppose so." Hartmann ponders over the idea, but shakes his head. Even with this clear disadvantage, it's better to have Mort on his side, to encourage his rivalry with Valdo. Plus, he can always cover for him. "I suppose zhe Spy vill do for now. Break!" He claps his hands, breaking formation, and they return to the starting point just as the RED team finishes their meet-up. "Ve vill hand over one of our members, as part of our deal," he announces as he places a hand on Spy's shoulder.

Dante appears unfazed. "Actually, ve have been conversing, und ve believe ve should make zhe decision. Und ve have decided to take your Sniper." He walks up to Mortimer and holds out his hand. "Before ve begin, I vould like to introduce myself. I am Dante Alterheim. Herr Buckman has told me much about you." His eyes catch a glance at Joey, who immediately averts his gaze. "I hope you can tolerate zhe predicament you're in."

Mort is confused at first, but becomes comforted by the mention of his old pal. "Hey, any friend of Joey's is a friend of mine." He clasps the doctor's hand and shakes it. "Mortimer Mundy, reporting for duty!"

It all goes downhill from there. Thrown off by the sudden change of events, the BLU team find themselves in a bind. Mortimer has proven to be a surprisingly skilled player, with his boundless energy, powerful legs, and precise aim compensating for his lack of knowledge about the game's rules. In addition, the RED team is supplied with competent athletes, including their newest recruit, a hot-blooded Soldier with a penchant for high-flying stunts. To make matters worse, Spy passes out in the middle of the match, forcing Hartmann to step out to assist him, and thus leading to another re-balancing of the teams. In a last-minute attempt to turn things around, Pasha has forms a strategy in his head, and promptly recruits Joey to put it to action. His plan works more smoothly than expected, as Joey's aggressive spikes, combined with Mort and Zhen's conflicting personalities arising from their mutual friend being on the other side of the net, helps lead the BLU team to a narrow victory.

After the match's end, Joey and Mort shake hands and return to their respective cliques, only to reunite come sunset. The two Medics have negotiated, and came to the conclusion that the beach—secluded to all except those working for Team Fortress Industries—should be regarded as neutral territory and thus remain nameless. After sealing the deal, they have invited their allies over to a local barbecue joint for a surprise celebration. The atmosphere starts off rather tense, but lightens up over time, as conversations become more and more lively.

"An' then the farmer says, 'That's no Marimo—that's my wife'!" Mortimer bursts out laughing at his own joke, which flew over the heads of everybody at the table who isn't Australian, Mort in particular. As he calms down, he wipes a tear from his eye and changes the subject. "Jokes aside, I'm still surprised you got recruited so soon. I thought you still had a few weeks to go."

Speaking with his mouth full, Zhen answers, "I do. This is part of my training; think of it as an apprenticeship, if you will." He swallows and continues while he shovels more food into his mouth. "In the weeks up to my graduation, I have to find a mentor from somebody working at Team Fortress Industries—better than letting SOLDR choose for me—and they help me break into the mercenary routine. When I first met Joey at the restaurant, I knew right away he was the one for me."

Vincent, who's picking away at his steamed veggies, chuckles weakly. "That explains everything. I thought you were hitting on him, when you gave him your number."

Joey almost chokes on his food, while Zhen looks away, embarrassed. "Our relationship is strictly professional—really. More accurate, it's like babysitting than tutoring." The Soldier pouts and glares at his Sniper partner, who smiles sheepishly. "Then again, wasn't it the same with you, Morty?"

"Yeah, but it was fun, bein' with you. It's like havin' a brother I never had."

"It's true that there's something 'big-brotherly' about you," Vince interjects.

Joey, absent-minded, picks at his steak. "Well, I got two li'l brothers back at home, so it ain't too far from the truth. You're pretty 'big-brotherly' yourself, the way Valdo talks about you."

"What? Me? Actually, we're both the youngest in our family. I'm just the older twin."

"Really? You're awfully mature for a kid brother. Then again, you probably have to, to live with a kid like that."

Vince puts down his fork and stares gloomily at his half-finished plate. "Yeah. After what happened with our older brother, I've had to fill in for him. For Val's sake."

Mort's eyes widen. "'Older brother'? How many brothers do ya have, anyway?"

"Eight. Well, seven. Now, quit asking questions. I've got to go to the bathroom." He stands up and leaves the others to their business.

While Zhen occupies himself with chowing down on his large meal, Joey says sternly, "You shouldn't have brought it up, Mort. That's your problem: you're too nosy for your own good."

"But he's never told me about any of this! I could help him—"

"Help him how? Give him a hug an' a sappy, rousing speech, an' expect everything to be sunshine and rainbows? Here's the news, in case you didn't get it: _Life doesn't work that way!_ The kid is obviously suffering; meddling into his business will only mess things up worse."

"But I—"

"Don't give me those puppy-dog eyes, Mort! You should be grateful you never lost anyone." Mort opens his mouth to say something, but Joey interrupts with, "Animals don't count." He sighs and covers his face with the palm of his hand, his index finger and thumb rubbing against his temples. "You're a damned idiot. You're an idiot and a child. I can't believe I was ever friends with you." He slides his plate in Zhen's direction. "Take it. I lost my appetite." He gets up and exits the restaurant, not once looking back, even as he hears Mort slowly breaking down.


End file.
